Moments
by Lil black dog
Summary: A collection of mostly unrelated ficlets, looking at various moments in the lives of our favorite crewmembers. I'll continue adding to this as long as the response is favorable. Rating for later entries.
1. The Last Place in the Universe

A/N: This is a collection of mostly unrelated ficlets, inspired by the free write challenges at Ad Astra, looking at various moments in the lives of our favorite crewmembers. Some are humorous, some are serious, but all are snippets, either fleshing out things we already know or totally unique situations. I'll be adding to this as long as the free writes continue to spark ideas, and the response continues to be favorable. Chapter titles are drawn from the prompt given that particular week.

**The Last Place in the Universe**

It was the last place in the universe he wanted to be. He pulled the hood more snugly about his face, but that did little to protect him from the biting wind, the swirling snow that, along with the bone-chilling cold, was doing its best to penetrate the numerous layers of clothing he was wearing.

_Thunk!_ Something hard and white exploded against the back of his head. Hearing giggling behind him, he turned to see his cousin, her breath escaping through the scarf wrapped around the bottom half of her face in white, airy puffs.

"C'mon Spock, you've got to admit this is _fun!_ There's nothing like the first snow of the season. Mom says you guys _never_ get snow on Vulcan. This'll be your only chance to learn how to sled. Race you to the top of the hill," she called over her shoulder, tugging the wooden toboggan along behind her.

He wanted to explain that snow did exist on his homeworld, but only at the poles and atop the highest peaks – both environments inhospitable to its inhabitants, explored only by a select few intrepid souls; that Vulcans were a species dedicated to logic and never did anything 'just for fun,' but since speaking would mean tugging down the flap of the thermal turtleneck that he'd pulled up over his mouth before winding his own heavy scarf over top that, which would in turn give the bitter wind an avenue into his jacket, he thought better of it, merely trudging dutifully along in the path she had broken in the pristine, fluffy snow.

Much to his surprise, he found that he did enjoy her company, a stark, refreshing contrast to that of his peers and schoolmates on Vulcan. It was the current physical environment he found somewhat off-putting, the frigid air doing its best to penetrate every exposed pore. Up till now, he had not personally encountered temperatures this low, and he was not finding the experience to be a pleasant one.

When his mother had told him they would be going to Earth to visit her relatives, he'd been a little uncertain at first. After all, to this point his only contact with humans had been that with his own mother, a woman whose bearing and demeanor were certainly tempered by her many years spent on Vulcan, married to the Vulcan Ambassador no less.

When it came to interacting with a human child, he had had no idea what to expect, but was pleased to find that despite their disparity in age and the obvious cultural differences, they had more in common than he'd initially thought possible. At age twelve she was already an accomplished chess player, was learning the basics of the Terran trumpet, and the two shared similar tastes in literature. All in all, he'd found the time spent with her to be most agreeable.

He must admit, though, he had preferred their first visit last summer, when all he had needed was a sweatshirt to be comfortable outdoors. During that more temperate time of year there had been a wide variety of native flora and fauna available for examination. They were markedly different from the species indigenous to his world, and the two of them had spent many hours capturing, scrutinizing and then releasing these elusive creatures.

"Hurry up, slowpoke," she called, mittened hands cupped around the spot where her mouth was buried beneath the folds of her scarf, the laughter and gentle teasing in her tone doing much to take the sting out of her words. "I'll even let you drive."

That spurred his five-year-old legs to move a little faster, despite the thick snowpants and heavy boots, his mind already calculating the proper trajectory, speed and weight distribution which would be necessary for them to travel all the way to his cousin's back porch without having to slog through any more snowdrifts.

Besides, there was one place in the universe he wouldn't mind being at all when they were done playing in the snow – sitting at his aunt's kitchen table sipping a steaming mug of rich hot cocoa.


	2. Home for the Holidays  take one

**Home for the Holidays – take one**

The Bridge was positively abuzz with chatter when McCoy stepped out of the turbolift onto the upper ring of the circular room. He headed for the command chair where Jim was seated, chatting amiably with the yeoman standing alongside him before finally signing off on the padd in his hand with a flourish.

Bits and pieces of various conversations floated to him as he made his way down to the bridge's central hub. While he had expected them to center around the party for the entire crew scheduled for later this evening, he was surprised to find the topics were about something else altogether.

"It was the strangest thing," Uhura was commenting to Lieutenant Palmer, who had just finished her shift and was vacating the seat at the communications console. "When I woke up this morning there was a present on my desk – a bottle of my favorite perfume. Ship's stores doesn't sell it, so whoever left it must have gotten it when we stopped at Starbase Twelve last month."

Chekov had turned from the navigation console. "I had a similar experience, Lieutenant," he chimed in. "I was just telling Mr. Sulu that there was a bottle of Putinka on my dresser this morning. It's one of the finest brands of Vodka, made only in Russia. To the best of my knowledge you can't get it anywhere other than Earth. Someone must have ordered it months ago." His gaze swept around the Bridge. "Would anyone like to confess? I'll be more than happy to share it with the person responsible."

But as McCoy had suspected, there were no takers.

Sulu was next with a tale of his own. "You think that's weird? When I went to the Botany Lab this morning before shift to harvest my Trianian beets, I found a rare Arcturian Trevili plant, already in bloom, waiting for me. Extremely temperamental, they have to be nurtured for months, kept in just the right amount of light, and at a constant humidity level of seventy percent, to coax them to flower. And this one was the most brilliant shade of violet I've ever seen. Whoever put it there sure knew what they were doing."

McCoy started as a soft snicker escaped from the man seated to his left.

"You find that amusing, Jim? Why? Maybe because you had something to do with it?" The question was delivered with McCoy's usual brand of subtlety and tact.

"Much as I'd like to take credit for all that Bones, you know I don't have a green thumb in the least. It's only thanks to the skill of my yeoman that the plants in my quarters are still alive." His look turned thoughtful. "No, I'm chuckling because something along those lines happened to me, too. I got up this morning and found a leather-bound copy of 'The War of the Worlds' on the shelf above my bed. I've been searching for that particular volume for years to complete my H.G. Wells collection. I didn't even know anyone knew I wanted it."

This was just too much of a coincidence. McCoy had also discovered a new replica of a Neanderthal skull among the other ancient artifacts in the recessed niche on the wall behind his desk this morning, and Scotty told them of the new, state-of-the-art toolkit he'd discovered in his office. It seemed everyone on the bridge had a similar story. Everyone except Spock, that is. When asked, Spock had commented brusquely that Vulcans did not celebrate Christmas, that he did not fully comprehend the human need to give gifts on a holiday that was intended to mark the coming of God to Earth in mortal form, and returned his attention immediately to the instruments in front of him, bowing out of the conversation altogether.

The CMO contemplated that carefully. No, it couldn't be, could it? There was only one sure way to find out.

He made some excuse to Jim about having to inventory his supplies before their scheduled stopover at Starbase Twenty-three in two days, and headed for the turbolift. Just before tripping the sensor which would open the door he paused, turning back to the center of the room. "Spock, if I could borrow you for a few minutes, please."

The dark head popped up from the hooded viewer, met his gaze with a quizzical look. "For what purpose, Doctor?"

"I'm having some trouble with one of the diagnostic panels in Sickbay." He was shocked at how easily the lie tumbled forth from his lips. "I've had the guys from the IT Department look at it three times already this week, but they can't figure out what's wrong with it. Care to give it a shot?" That was sure to get him, and keep him from being suspicious. There was nothing like an intellectual challenge to pique the Vulcan's curiosity.

"Captain?"

"Sure, go ahead Spock. We're not busy at the moment anyway." Kirk turned to the Russian navigator. "Mr. Chekov, please man the science station until Mr. Spock returns."

"Aye sair," the young ensign responded immediately, getting to his feet and climbing the two stairs to the upper level of the Bridge.

As the turbolift doors closed behind them, the science officer turned to McCoy, all business.

"What is the nature of the problem, Doctor?"

But McCoy's answer in no way matched the question. "Spock, you old softie."

"I beg your pardon?" Judging by the rapidity with which both eyebrows took wing, the Vulcan was genuinely nonplussed.

He was definitely getting the hang of this. Jim wasn't the only one who could read the Vulcan now, the slight bobbing of the Adam's apple, the barely perceptible twitch of a muscle along his jaw said much more than Spock's even monotone, or that look of complete innocence.

"I know why you did it, too. No one on the alpha bridge crew has been able to spend Christmas with their families for the last three years. And the anonymity was a nice touch. They'll spend so much time trying to figure out who did it and how they managed it that they won't have time to think about missing their loved ones. And I'm sure you were counting on the fact that you'd be the _last _person anyone would suspect." He couldn't restrain the triumphant gleam that sprang to his eyes. "Just when I'm convinced there's no hope for you, you go and do something like this."

"Like what, Doctor?" Spock responded with mock naïveté, but McCoy could plainly hear the nervous swallow.

"Don't play coy with me, Spock. It had to have been you." The blue eyes softened at the thought. "No one else aboard would have the computer know-how to have defeated all those locks, or would have been stealthy enough to sneak into their quarters when people were asleep without waking them."

He watched with smug satisfaction as the tips of Spock's ears flushed a deep green. Despite his best efforts, the Vulcan had been caught.

"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me." He knew he was wearing a stupid, silly grin, but he really didn't care. Spock usually only succeeded in pissing him off no end, but today he'd seen a whole new side to that supposedly logical, unfeeling personality. "You may be way too tall, but you sure have the ears to be one of Santa's elves."


	3. Home for the Holidays  take two

**Home for the Holidays – take two**

He lay in bed, the soft starlight playing over the wall and floor of his bedroom. He knew he should be sleeping; in fact, proper meditation techniques would have cleared his mind of these thoughts, allowing sleep to come easily, swiftly, but the events he had witnessed today just wouldn't let him be.

Today they had celebrated Gad Kaunsh'es, the most important holiday on his world. It was a day dedicated to personal reflection, and to commemorate the most significant event in his planet's long and tumultuous history. Today marked the day Surak had proposed total logic to a war-torn planet; proposed casting out emotion and animal passions in an effort to keep the warring clans, whose technology was ever improving, from completely annihilating all life on the planet, from destroying a society that had the potential for greatness, if only they could harness their ardor, their zeal and channel it into the pursuit of intellectual enlightenment, as opposed to the utter destruction of everything and everyone around them.

He reflected on this anniversary nineteen hundred years in the making, so different from the ones traditionally celebrated on his mother's world. On Terra, there were no holidays that marked the coming together of the entire planet's population. Most were driven by the many different religions on his mother's planet, or the achievements of individual governments or countries. And often, the true meaning of the celebration became lost in the act of celebrating itself, the need to give gifts or commemorate a pivotal historical or sacred event with boisterousness and overindulgence overshadowing the significance of that singular milestone which was being honored.

Vulcan holidays and celebrations were much more cerebral, the focus being centered on the message which made the day worthy of remembrance.

For example, his parents had taken him to an outdoor amphitheater today, to witness a reenactment of Surak's struggle in the desert as he strove to drive out his animal passions and set his mind on the path to pure logic, an event which proved to be the salvation of the Vulcan race.

He knew it was meant as an example to all his people, to show where they had been before their society had had the foresight to adopt Surak's ideology, and just how far they had come as a race since then, but it had particular significance for him.

Growing up as a hybrid on this world, born of a Vulcan father and Human mother, the struggle was much more real for him, much more difficult, and frequently altogether confusing.

He strove to conduct himself as a proper Vulcan son; someone befitting the station in life into which he had been born, a worthy representative of the Great Lineage of Soltar, one of the more prestigious clans, able to trace its roots back several thousand years. But most of all, he wanted his father to be proud of him; wanted to earn Sarek's respect. Seeing the disappointment that sometimes flared in his father's eyes when his behavior was less than Vulcan was often difficult to bear.

And yet, there was that part of him that still delighted in the time he shared with his mother when it was just the two of them; took pleasure in seeing the joy in her eyes when he'd permit himself to smile shyly at her, or when a giggle escaped his lips as she tickled him, or when they played the Earth game called hide-and-seek in her terraced garden.

For the last seven years it had been a paradox. He didn't wish to exclude either of his parents by choosing one part of his heritage over the other, but was just now beginning to realize that this desire to spare them both was unrealistic, an idealistic dream viewed naively through the eyes of a child. Nonetheless, the time for selecting one specific path to follow would soon be upon him. His kahs-wan loomed ever closer, scheduled for next month, in fact, and if he decided to participate, to complete the ritual, it would also signify his intention to be wholly Vulcan, to completely dismiss his human heritage; a most difficult choice to be borne on the shoulders of one so young.

He suspected that was why his parents had opted to take him to the play today. It had shown the conflict raging within Surak, his difficulty in overcoming the emotions that at the time were second nature to his people, but it also brought to light the huge gains, not only for Surak personally but for society in general, to be realized by taking on this most difficult task. Over the last few weeks he and his father had had numerous discussions regarding his upcoming life choice. Sarek had carefully explained the benefits of selecting the Vulcan way. Obviously not wishing to contradict his father, his mother had had nothing to say about the matter, other than that she would love him regardless of his ultimate decision.

In many ways, this task was much easier for his peers. Centuries of careful breeding and conditioning of the Vulcan mind had ensured that a predisposition for logic, for control over their feelings, was coded into their genetic makeup. For others his age, suppressing emotion had become instinctual, almost a reflex, but for him it was a constant battle to get the two halves of his psyche to coexist, to work together. And at this stage in his life, he often found himself failing miserably.

But what he had seen today commemorating Gad Kaunsh'es had proven inspirational. When Surak had succeeded in purging all emotions, the revolutionary thinker's state of mind had been more similar to his own than that of present-day Vulcans. At the time, their planet's greatest philosopher had been genetically programmed to feel, to allow his passions a strong hand in the decisions he made, much as part of he himself was thanks to his human heritage.

_If Surak could manage it, then so can I_, he resolved. _I am not so different than he was all those millennia ago, and therefore am as able as any to achieve anything to which I set my mind._ The taunts of his schoolmates rang in his ears: _Earther, barbarian, Terran, emotional Earther._ He would prove them wrong; he would prove _everyone _who doubted him wrong.

Just as Gad Kaunsh'es represented salvation to the Vulcan people, the ideals of this day would prove to be his motivation as well. And he might as well start now. Closing his eyes and regulating his breathing, he willed his racing mind to be calm, be still, as the tendrils of sleep began to wrap themselves around the welcome silence.


	4. First Day

**A/N:** This piece does follow on the heels of the previous chapter somewhat. It can be read on its own, but does add somewhat to what preceded it.

**First Day**

He awoke, slightly chilled, unfurling himself from the tight little ball he'd made himself into in an effort to retain what he could of his body heat. The first shafts of sunlight were just peeking their heads over the horizon, casting long shadows from the tall spires of the mountains ringing this small, low-lying hollow. Sitting up gingerly, his muscles still stiff with the morning cold, he realized his small campfire had gone out sometime during the night.

Drawing the folds of his desert softsuit more tightly about him he reached for the large, thick-skinned seed pod at his side. It only contained a few sips of water, water he'd painstakingly collected from the solar still he'd made a few days ago, transferring it to this makeshift container for easy portability, but those few sips were all he'd need. This was the tenth day. He had not only survived his kahs-wan, but thrived, having found a small handful of edible ra'lichi plants two days into this ordeal. Combined with disciplined, focused meditation, munching them sparingly over the course of the last eight days had been enough to stave off the worst of the hunger pangs.

His thoughts drifted to home, and to the hearty meal he knew his mother would have waiting for him. Risaka melon, the blue flesh juicy, dense and very sweet, l'havnar, a type of cold Vulcan oatmeal, warm, freshly-baked chollum bread slathered with a thick layer of a soft, creamy cheese spread, and Terran waffles swimming in real maple syrup, just because she knew they were his favorite. And of course, there'd be a large, steaming mug of Tarkelian tea to wash it all down with.

Kicking sand over the remnants of his fire, his stomach rumbling in anticipation, he set out for the location designated as the endpoint to this figurative journey from childhood to adolescence. Situated in the foothills of the L'langon Mountains, it would take him about an hour or so by foot to make his way back there.

Trudging through the sand, the morning sun starting to burn off the nighttime coolness still hovering on the currents of air swirling around him, his thoughts turned to the magnitude of the event he had just undergone. While this ritual was part of everyday life on his planet, a rite of passage for most, it represented something altogether different for him.

He had tried to use this time wisely; take advantage of the solitude and carefully reflect on the course his life would now take. Gone were the days of secret smiles and childish giggles as he played with his mother. There'd be no more fighting in the streets, defending his bruised self-image, his ego stung by the epithets and insults hurled at him by his peers. He'd made the final decision several weeks ago, when a beloved pet had lost his life due to his foolish and impetuous impulses – a loss he'd managed to face stoically, without tears – regarding which side of his hybrid nature he'd choose to follow.

The Vulcan side, dedicated to logic and strict control over emotion was certainly the more difficult path of the two, especially considering he had human as well as Vulcan emotions to deal with, but in the end he had decided it would be the best choice for him personally. He knew it would hurt his mother to see him revert to the total suppression of emotion that was the hallmark of his father's race, but if he were to live, grow, and thrive in the environment in which he found himself, this represented the only way to achieve that goal; the only sure path to acceptance.

Over the last few months, he'd experienced quite a bit of personal anguish as he'd grappled with this decision, but now, once the choice had been made, and he had completed the maturity test passed down through the millennia by his people, a sense of calm, of serenity engulfed him.

During the last ten days he'd vowed that he'd not only achieve this goal he had set for himself, but he'd bring prestige to his family name as well, for he'd work doubly hard to prove that his human blood didn't represent the taint others believed it did. He would be just as Vulcan, if not more so, than his peers. Taking a deep, cleansing breath he lifted his chin defiantly, resolutely. His feet now set firmly on the path he had chosen, there would be no turning back. Today marked the first day of the rest of his life, and from this day forward he would be wholly Vulcan, the only face he would show to others, or permit them to see. And he would not fail.


	5. Backpfeifengesicht

**A/N:** Backpfeifengesicht is a German slang term that loosely translated means 'a face in need of slapping.' Can you blame me for instantly thinking of McCoy when I read this prompt? ;-)

**Backpfeifengesicht**

_If ever there was a face in need of slapping, it's his, _McCoy thought grumpily, brushing the beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

They had been trapped in here for over an hour, the surreptitious stern looks he'd been receiving periodically placing the blame squarely on him for their current predicament.

_How the hell was I supposed to know what that button was for?_ the doctor groused silently. _It's not like it has _'Don't touch me or you'll be spending the next hour basking in the Jolly Green Vulcan's warm, glowing presence' _written below it in bold letters. Of course, maybe it does say that, _he conceded, the thought doing little to ease his current level of frustration. _I'm a doctor, not a linguist; can't blame me for not being able to read Borunali, _he grumbled to himself, glancing up at the large, blue button and the indecipherable script etched beneath it_. _

_Not to mention, it's not like it was intentional_, he tried to rationalize._ If this damn thing hadn't shot up like it was going to explode out of the top of the building, then maybe I wouldn't have lost my balance and bumped the friggin' thing in the first place._ Too late, he now understood all too well the purpose of the railing – which he'd failed to grasp (in more ways than one) when he'd first entered – encircling the entire circumference of the room save the space occupied by the door.

They were in a high-speed turbolift of sorts, which allowed its riders to travel swiftly from the bottom floor of this building to the conference center on the roof without making any stops in between, covering the 150 floors spanning that distance in about thirty seconds. McCoy had accidentally tripped the panic button, designed to instantaneously halt the car's upward or downward momentum in the event of a mechanical failure. Unfortunately it had worked, in spades, the narrow car grinding to a sudden stop somewhere between the 50th and 60th floor. But apparently there was something wrong with the comm unit, tucked away in a recessed compartment on the wall, occupants were supposed to use to call for immediate extrication in the event of a problem.

Once stopped, the bullet-shaped chamber could not be restarted until it was given a clean bill of health by the maintenance team, its anti-grav thrusters having to be reset manually in order for the circular car to be set in motion once again.

Both of the _Enterprise _men had tried in vain to raise the captain, who was waiting for them at the conference, and then the ship in an effort to simply be beamed out of the current unpleasant circumstances in which they found themselves, but some unknown material in the shaft was apparently blocking their communicator signals.

He sighed heavily, for the third time in as many minutes. The sound was met with stony silence, his fellow prisoner seated on the floor of their 'cell' as well, an angled eyebrow streaking toward the horizontal hairline of its owner. It just screamed recrimination.

He swallowed the vitriolic comment that immediately sprang to mind, going for something a little less confrontational instead. "How long have we been in here, Spock?"

"One hour, fourteen minutes, twenty-two point four seconds," came the instantaneous reply.

"I don't understand why the hell it has to be so hot in here," McCoy remarked dourly, mopping his brow with an already-sodden sleeve this time.

"Most likely it is due to the fact that the mechanism's comm unit is inoperative. As no one has placed a request for assistance, logically the repair crew will have concluded that the car was not occupied at the time of the malfunction."

"That still doesn't explain why it has to be so goddamned _hot_ in here." Leave it to Spock to provide him with an answer that only added to his already mounting aggravation.

"When a breakdown occurs, all power is shut down to the unit. If the repair crews deem it necessary, environmental controls can be reactivated remotely, while the persons trapped await rescue," Spock explained, his usually patient tone muddied with a hint of exasperation. "Since they have not done so, it is safe to assume that they are unaware of our presence here."

"Then would you mind telling me why the lights are still on?" _Of course, he'll probably have some logical explanation for _that_ as well_.

"_That_ is most likely due to a mechanical problem, the system failing to disengage completely."

"Just my luck. Even when technology hiccups I can't catch a break." He glanced at Spock, seated calmly on the floor across from him, confusion as to the meaning behind that last statement flitting briefly over the placid features, and he felt another surge of irritation with the Vulcan rise unbidden. "Aren't you hot, Spock?"

"Negative. The current temperature of 32.6 degrees Celsius is actually slightly below the ambient temperature of my quarters." The Vulcan's voice had returned to its usual deadpan, expressionless timbre.

"Figures, I have to be stuck in here with a Denebian Desert Mole," he muttered under his breath. The hyper-active eyebrow told him the comment had not been incomprehensible to the Vulcan's super-sensitive ears, but for some reason his compatriot refrained from answering.

Observing his companion closely, he soon realized Spock was focusing on another sound altogether. "What Spock? Are they—" but he was cut off in mid-sentence as the Vulcan brusquely waved him to silence.

Spock cocked his head to one side, clearly straining to process the sounds reaching him, and McCoy found he was unable to hold his tongue. "What do you hear? Are they finally trying to get us out of this tin can?"

"I believe an access hatch has been opened approximately fifty meters above us. I distinctly heard the captain's voice, expressing certainty that we were confined within this lift, as he had confirmed our departure from the ship but we failed to make an appearance at the conference."

As if on cue, the air conditioning unit kicked on, blasting the interior with cool jets of air.

Spock's communicator chose that moment to come to life. "Spock here," the Vulcan responded crisply.

"_Mr. Spock. We were starting to get a little concerned. Are you in the express lift, and is Bones with you?"_

"Affirmative, to both questions, and the doctor is most displeased with the situation."

_Talk about an _understatement, McCoy scoffed silently. He grabbed the Vulcan's wrist, angling the device toward himself and raising his voice slightly. "What the hell took you so long, Jim?"

"_We weren't sure you were in there. All four units experienced some sort of outage, but since calls for help were received from the other three cars, the maintenance crews were concentrating on rescuing those people first. I tried to raise you on my communicator, but wasn't able to get through until they opened the access plate into the shaft. Why didn't you call in?"_

McCoy chose to ignore the question, catching Spock's eye, unable to stop the smug smirk that turned up the corners of his mouth. "You mean it was nothing we did? The malfunction affected all those other high-speed thingamabobs, too?"

"_Well, according to what the maintenance crews have been able to piece together, someone in one of the cars hit the panic button, but for some reason it overloaded the entire system, affecting all the units."_

He felt the smirk melt from his lips, watching the self-satisfied I-told-you-so look reappear in the Vulcan's eyes, barely hearing the remainder of the captain's reply.

"_Hold on. The rescue crews assured me they'll have you out within ten minutes."_

But McCoy only had eyes for the Vulcan. On the inside, he was sure Spock was laughing at him. Yep, if ever someone deserved to be smacked…


	6. Ten Trek Drabbles

**Ten Trek Drabbles**

A/N: For those of you who are unfamiliar with the reference, a drabble is a story that is exactly 100 words. Somehow I managed to get all of these to 100 words on the dot. Some days, things just work out. ;-) Some are obvious as to who they're about, others are open to interpretation, multiple interpretations, in fact.

Entry #1:

It's done. They are looking at me, their faces asking what their words cannot. _Did it work? Is it you, Captain, all of you?_ But all I want to do at the moment is empty the contents of my stomach.

_Me?_ How could _that_ be _me_? That beast is back inside _me_? No time to dwell on it. That will come later.

"Jim?"

McCoy's voice centers me. I draw a breath, expanding my lungs, clearing my mind, answering their question the only way I know how. Jerking a thumb over my shoulder I bark out, "Get those men aboard fast!"

Entry #2:

The green haze lifts and I am staring into the face of my worst nightmare. Dead. How many times have I tried to prevent this? How many times have I been willing to shield this man from harm using my own flesh, willing to sacrifice my life for his? Yet in the end, I failed to protect him from myself. The bright light that was his life snuffed out by my own hand. How ironic that his worst enemy should prove to be me. I have failed; the only saving grace is I know I will be joining him soon.

Entry #3:

I must do this. He has made a vocation out of beating the odds, but this time, his luck will run out. It is such a little thing – to trade one life for so many. He will be angry, blame himself, but will come to understand the necessity of my decision eventually. I cannot fail him now, not when there is so much at stake. I glance at him. He is mentally thumbing through a dozen scenarios, but not this one – the only one which guarantees the ship's survival. Resolutely I head for the turbolift and my first, best destiny…

Entry #4:

It has been a perfect day, the best tenth birthday_ ever_! My parents gave me the telescope I begged for, even though they do not understand my fascination with the heavens, with all things not of this world. Mom is calling me, telling me to come inside, it is late, but I can't tear myself away from the vast canvas of new discoveries now open to me. The siren song of the cosmos is calling to me like a sweet lullaby whispered on the wind. Someday I will be out there, traveling among the stars, doing more than just looking…

Entry #5:

Some days are simply not worth the trouble. Constantly having to intervene in this ridiculous case of petty bickering and childish finger-pointing has pushed me to the edge of my patience, but the soft, fuzzy cascade raining down on me is the last straw. Frustration and anger melt away as the deluge continues unchecked and I find the situation insufferable. I glance at my First. Behind the impassive visage I see the empathy, the commiseration for my current plight. Being covered from head to toe by a quivering, cooing mass of pink fur was NOT part of my job description.

Entry #6:

The silence was deafening, especially since the events of the past few hours had disturbed the many years of solitude. Had it really happened, or was the tall, lean figure who'd captured her heart merely a figment of her overactive imagination, a subconscious desire to bring about an end to her crushing loneliness? She burrowed under the thick furs, enveloped in a warmth that was strangely incongruous to the howling of the bitter wind, the swirling snow. A tear slid down her cheek; she could still taste his lips on hers. She vowed to make that memory last a lifetime.

Entry #7:

My heart is pounding, but they are safe and that's all that matters. Unethical my ass! I knocked them out just in the nick of time; they've come for me. I have no illusions about what's in store for me. By nature, I'm not noble in the least, and frankly I'm scared shitless. But right now, my own death is of little consequence. Squaring my shoulders, I address the girl who is watching me. She may be unable to speak, but her eyes convey the depth of her feelings. "You stay here with my friends. They'll take care of you."

Entry #8:

Shame. Humiliation. Dishonor. It would mean ruin for her family; undo everything she had worked for, sacrificed for, aspired to her whole life. How could she have let this happen? Why had she trusted him? He was the enemy after all, much as her heart had told her otherwise.

They would reach the rendezvous point soon and would turn her over to her own government. She laughed bitterly. There was no escape, except death, which would be sure to find her one way or another. But first she would find some way to make him pay dearly for his treachery.

Entry #9:

"Don't you dare die on me you green-blooded son of a bitch!" We'd lost three crew members already. He'd pulled all of us from the burning hulk of the shuttlecraft, but the others' injuries were just too severe.

I'm lucky – only a broken leg, but he's unconscious now, struggling for breath, his lungs burned by the acrid, poison smoke, and without the proper equipment, without the technology I grumble about but on which I've come to depend, I have no way to help him. We were way off course; are stranded, waiting for rescue. _Please don't leave me here alone…_

Entry #10:

Standing stock still in the center of the room, lost in the moment, he could feel the thrum, the pulse beneath his feet. She was alive with energy; vibrant; doing what she had been born to do. And so was he. This felt so right. For the first time in his life he felt connected, joined to another, as if she were a part of him and vice versa. How long he had waited for this day; imagined it, dreamed of it, and now, it went well beyond his wildest expectations. Powerful. Majestic. She was his shining, silver, beautiful lady.


	7. Under the Weather

**Under the Weather**

Bursts of activity punctuated the darkness behind his eyes, as if a strobe light was going off at regular intervals; had captured brief glimpses of those terrifying few moments.

_A split second of radiance. _ A figure dressed in gold a few meters in front of him, its outline framed by the warm sunlight, turning to face him wearing a beatific grin of wonderment, something being held out to him for closer inspection.

_A flash of electricity. _ A hint of movement in a nearby shrub momentarily drawing his attention from the man now headed toward him. Jaws parting slightly, a pale yellow tongue flicked out, tasting the air disturbed by the other's motion.

_A brief ray of illumination._ Bright sunlight glinting off sharp, white fangs. A head drawn back, poised to strike. His mind added it up in a split second: fast; dangerous; lethal.

_A spark of light. _ Muscles bunching in preparation for immediate action; a hoarse shout accompanied by a torso flung forward by legs determined to be swifter than the hidden menace. An outstretched hand impacting a broad chest, a flash of gold pushed aside. Blinding pain. The piercing whine of a phaser. Vertigo. The sensation of falling, his limbs no longer capable of following instructions. Strong arms breaking the fall. The brush of soft velour against his cheek. The chirp of a communicator. _Blackness._

oooOOOooo

Sounds surfaced slowly out of the surrounding shadows: the unrelenting pings and sighs of machinery. Footfalls deadened by the carpeting underfoot. The murmur of hushed voices: one high-pitched, betraying her worry and concern; the other gruff, low, strained; a third, authoritative, demanding yet composed, barking out questions. These indeterminate echoes once again sank slowly into the bottomless well of darkness.

oooOOOooo

Consciousness filtered back little by little as subdued voices floated up from the background once more. This time, he was able to make out snippets of the muted exchange.

"He's out of the woods; I'm confident he'll survive, but the leg's another matter. He still may lose it, Jim. I think we treated the lesion in time, but we'll just have to wait and see if we got enough of the poison out to prevent total necrosis of the veins and arteries in his thigh, and if that happens, there's not a damn thing I can do besides amputate."

"When will you know for sure?"

A portentous sigh preceded the disembodied voice. "It'll be another twelve to twenty-four hours before we see the full extent of the destruction caused by the venom. So far, things look promising, but there's some deep tissue damage at the site of the bite wound. If it doesn't spread any further he'll most certainly keep the leg. He's gonna lose some muscle there for sure, but with additional reconstructive surgery and rehabilitation, he should make a full recovery."

A beat as McCoy switched gears. "Good thing you had the sense to stun that weird little snake and bring it back with you, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to analyze the venom so quickly. You know, you almost certainly saved his life Jim."

A cynical snort escaped from the captain. "Don't you mean he saved mine? You said if he'd been fully human, he would've been dead before he hit the ground. If it had bitten me we wouldn't be standing here right now, having this conversation."

"Don't go beating yourself up about it, Jim – you know how he is. Once he gets a plan of action in that stubborn head of his there's no changing his mind. Besides, things could have turned out so much worse." The sound of two sets of Starfleet issue boots approaching his biobed. "He should be coming around soon. I know there's no point in me telling you to go back to your quarters and get some rest, so let me know when he's awake, okay? I've got some paperwork to finish in my office." One set of measured steps retreating swiftly from the room.

The scrape of a chair being dragged next to the bed met his ears, creaking slightly in protest as a weight was settled into it.

He kept his eyes closed, his breathing even, despite the thrum of blood in his ears and the disquieting pulse of apprehension in his gut brought about by McCoy's words. But that wasn't the only reason for his sudden discomfiture. Even the tiny voice inside his head that whispered what he had done was necessary, quite logical in fact, proved unable to douse the fire of Kirk's frustration and anger which electrified the air between them. He knew without question he'd be unable to face a verbal confrontation with this man at the moment.

Unfortunately, Kirk had no such compunction. He began muttering quietly to himself. "What the hell am I going to do with you, Mister? You're going to throw yourself into the line of fire one too many times, take one chance too many, and then what? How do you think that will affect Bones, if he isn't able to save your hide, or me, knowing I'm responsible?" His captain released his breath slowly in a deep, protracted sigh, a good deal of the anger leaching out along with it leaving only affection and concern in its wake. "Just what in God's name did you think you were doing?"

The tiny voice took it upon itself to answer. _I was doing what I always do, what I am bound to do, in ways even I do not fully comprehend, whenever your safety is at stake._ But his Captain _was_ safe; he had succeeded yet again. Immediate relief replaced the momentary bout of uneasiness. A leg was surely an equitable trade for this man's life. That was the one constant running through his head, sustaining him, as exhaustion finally overwhelmed him and sleep took him once more.


	8. I Thought I Might Die

A/N: This is a rather dark piece. In my defense I can only say it was inspired by a brief exchange between Kirk and McCoy in my story 'Learning Curve' where the latter admitted to witnessing a childhood tragedy. Knowledge of McCoy's pain from ST:V will add understanding to the end of this piece.

**I Thought I Might Die, But Was Afraid I Wouldn't**

"I thought I might die, but was so afraid I wouldn't in time."

The captain traded a look of total confusion with the Vulcan standing at his side, turning his focus back to the figure lying in the biobed. He placed a reassuring hand on the older man's shoulder.

"It doesn't matter, Bones, you're safe now. We found you just in the nick of time."

oooOOOooo

_Three hours earlier._

"Let's check out that colony of critters clinging to the rocks over there," he said, moving gingerly across the long, narrow formation jutting out into the sea, the pounding surf sending up a mist of frigid water which cascaded over them in tiny, sparkling droplets. "This environment seems so inhospitable. I can't believe anything other than mollusks or barnacles could survive here, yet they seem to be thriving."

He and Lieutenant Rodgers proceeded as close to the edge as they dared, tricorders clicking and pinging as they correlated the data being fed to them. The undulating blanket of water, which had been relatively calm moments before, chose that instant to snap and crackle with a vengeance. The monstrous wave came out of nowhere, knocking both men off their feet, dragging them across the slippery surface of the weatherworn stone, tumbling them end over end like small pebbles as it fought to retreat to the depths from whence it came.

He scrabbled for a handhold, a foothold – anything to keep him from being swept off the oversized outcropping and plunged into the ebb and flow of the pulsing eddies below. His fingers finding a tiny fissure, he held on for dear life, his legs and lower torso dangling over the edge, groping for traction, fighting the urge to draw breath as the translucent, briny wall flowed over him on its return journey.

Once the wave receded, he tried to clamber to his feet. But one leg refused to cooperate, his ankle now wedged snugly between two razor-sharp projections of igneous rock. Several tugs at the stubborn appendage only succeeded in locking it more firmly in place.

His gaze scouring the uneven jumble of bony landscape stretched out before him, he called for his companion in vain. His eyes finally settled on the blue-clad form, limp and lifeless, bobbing on the ripples of the retreating waves.

Panic gripped him in that instant as he was transported back to his youth, barefoot, ankle-deep in rushing water sucking the sand from beneath his feet, paralyzed by the dreadful, high-pitched screams emanating from the woman several meters to his right. Profound helplessness and a morbid sense of fascination kept him rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the lurid scene unfolding before him. The blood-curdling screams turned to inconsolable sobs as she watched first her son, and then her husband, disappear, snatched by the merciless, angry current propelling them ever further away from shore. Their heads finally sank below the shifting surface, never to reemerge from the roiling depths again.

It was like reliving what had happened to Forrest and Mr. Tatum all over again. It had taken him many years to get over that singular incident. No eight-year-old should ever have to watch his best friend and that friend's father drown.

He was shivering uncontrollably now, partly due to the memory but mostly due to the ice-cold water pummeling him at regular intervals. He fumbled for his communicator with numb fingers, wasn't surprised to find it had been stripped off his hip along with his phaser, medikit, and the tricorder that had been in his hands. Cupping bruised and bloodied palms around his mouth he called out, knowing his words were being whisked away almost instantly, entombed by the crash of the unrelenting waves and the harsh whisper of the stiff, incessant breeze. There was no chance the other members of the landing party would hear his cries for help.

The march of time ceased; the roar of the waves and the distant cries of seabirds now frozen in place on the wind as the echoes of the past once again swallowed him whole. How much time had passed he never did come to know, but the world started turning again as he realized to his horror that the tide was coming in, water that had been lapping at his heels in what felt like only minutes before now pooling around his waist.

_Lord help me, I'm going to drown_, he thought bitterly, teeth chattering against the cold and all-consuming fear. _My only hope is to die of hypothermia before I'm totally under water._ A derisive chuckle bubbled up unexpectedly from within. He knew space was a dangerous place, but he'd always thought technology would be his undoing, that he'd meet his Maker due to a bizarre transporter accident, by succumbing to some weird, incurable illness contracted on some distant, far-flung world, or at the very least at the business end of a Klingon disruptor.

He put his head down, closing his eyes, no longer wanting to see the swirl of the violent, frothy blue sea as it crept ever closer. The tremors wracking his body stopped abruptly and he felt himself drifting, enveloped by a sudden rush of warmth, of peace, when he heard a voice calling his name. It sounded like Jim, but the face he saw against the black of his eyelids was that of his father. The time had come to face his demons.

_Don't worry dad, I'll be joining you soon, one way or another…_


	9. Loss of Concentration

**Loss of Concentration**

"Nurse?"

It was the third time in the last thirty minutes that he'd questioned her. Feeling her cheeks go red, she redoubled her efforts at focusing on the objects spread out before her.

"You neglected to add the proper stain to the sample." Not accusatory or couched in anger; just a simple statement of fact.

"You're right. I'll do it right away, sir." She hurried to comply, feeling his eyes on her; feeling silly, inadequate.

"This lack of efficiency is atypical behavior for you. Perhaps we should finish this experiment at a later date." Again, not a hint of censure, but did she hear a touch of concern in the even tone?

"Sorry sir," she replied contritely. It seemed like every other word out of her mouth for the last half hour had been some form of apology. "I'm guess I'm just a little distracted today." Boy was _that_ an understatement. She couldn't seem to concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes, when all she desperately wanted was something to divert her attention, to keep her mind from wandering to anywhere, anything but _that_.

"As I suspected you would be. I should not have imposed upon you to assist me today." His features, while remaining neutral, seemed to soften a bit nonetheless. "And I grieve with thee."

It took everything she had not to gasp out loud. How on Earth did he know? How could he possibly have remembered? Her mind answered her own rhetorical questions. _Because he remembers _everything, _it's his nature._ But she hadn't expected this open expression of solidarity with her grief – at least not from him of all people.

She could hardly believe it had been one year today; one year since she had learned the ugly, bitter truth about the fate that had befallen her fiancé. It had been six long years since he'd been an active part of her life, but somehow that didn't make facing her loss any easier. Bottom line was she still missed him; missed what might have been, what could have been, what should have been.

Glancing up into that calm, composed face, she hated herself for the inner weakness that caused a tear to slide down her cheek. But before she could brush it away, long, warm fingers did it for her, just as they had done several months ago, the hand now withdrawn, joining its counterpart behind his back.

The softness to his voice matched the gentleness of the gesture that preceded it. "Your fiancé was a brilliant scientist, a man who possessed a remarkable intellect. You should celebrate that, focus on that fact, for he was in no way responsible for the events that eventually took his life. The being that mistreated you and the Captain, caused the deaths of the security guards sent to Exo III to protect you, was not he, and therefore the man you remember is undeserving of this blame and guilt you still harbor over the incident. Roger Korby died long before the _Enterprise_ made contact with those individuals we believed to be him and his research team."

"I don't understand," she stammered, her heart racing, palms sweating.

"When someone's life is cut short, we on my planet grieve for the potential lost, but we temper that loss by remembering the contributions that individual made, either to our life personally, society as a whole, or both. During his lifetime, Doctor Korby accomplished much of which you can be proud. Do not allow the acts committed by the android that bore his face to sully that for you."

She was totally taken aback. Certainly not how her other friends on the ship had tried to help her this day – she had not been surprised when Uhura had pressed her into a hug at breakfast, tears glistening in her own eyes, or at McCoy's obvious effort at being extra considerate today, holding his gruff, crotchety personality in check, and the captain, who while on his way to McCoy's office, had briefly rested a hand on her shoulder in passing as she sat before the terminal in the main ward of Sickbay. Although she hadn't expected anyone to remember, their empathy had been greatly appreciated, but this turn of events came as a complete shock – he'd been the last person she would have imagined to offer her consolation this day, especially given the fact that he knew of her feelings for him, and it was no secret that it made him slightly uncomfortable.

Totally flustered, the words of gratitude in her head not finding their way to her mouth, she heard herself begin speaking. "Thank you, Mr. Spock," she answered softly, that being the only reply she could manage, the only thing she trusted herself to say at the moment.

At first, his response was just as quiet, made not with words, but a slight inclination of his head. After a moment he added, "Think carefully about what was said here. Perhaps it will provide you with the inner peace you seek."

"I will, sir, and it has already helped, more than you realize." Flashing him a small, grateful smile she turned and made for the door.


	10. Milestones  take one

**Milestones - Spock  
**

Milestones. There had been many in his life. But this one was different. This one was for him alone, much as he had stubbornly, blindly tried to convince himself over the years that the others had been as well.

It would be difficult. They would not understand – his parents, his betrothed, the Admissions Board at the Vulcan Science Academy – but this would be the first thing he had done in his entire life that was strictly for him alone.

He had always been different; from his earliest childhood recollections, he had been painfully aware of this inescapable truth. He had always walked the periphery, never quite able to cross the threshold into that exclusive members-only club which failed to grant him admission. He had never managed to fit in, had never been fully accepted, been welcomed by his peers, or by those adults who were ultimately responsible for shaping his future – supposedly wise and learned sages who proudly wrapped themselves in the tenets of IDIC as if they were a noble cloak of social dogma, without stopping to consider the actual significance behind the lofty words, or steadfastly applying them to ease the suffering of a lonely child.

His decision would hurt those closest to him, perhaps even cause a rift so wide no bridge would ever be able to span the diametrically opposed points of view once events were set into motion. It did not matter. All that mattered was that, for once, for the first time, in fact, he was being true to himself.

There were those who would view this as an act of cowardice; of someone who was running from that which he ultimately could not face.

Yes, he was running, but not away from his past, but rather toward his future – the future _he_ wanted, had envisioned for himself.

He glanced down at the message on the monitor, skimming over the trivial, getting right to the heart of the matter_: Accepted for the cadet class to begin in the fall of 2248, Starfleet Academy, San Francisco, Earth_. He had already reached his eighteenth year – the age of consent on Terra. Should he choose to pursue this life path, admission would not be contingent upon parental permission.

He considered his options carefully, for once the decision was made there would be no turning back.

Were he to remain here, on his father's world, there were those who, no matter what he achieved, no matter how he conducted himself, would be unable to look past what they perceived as the taint of his human heritage. His human half would forever remain a blight on his character, a black mark which would dog him throughout his life like a ravenous le'matya. It had taken eleven long, grueling, painful years to reach this conclusion, to have his eyes finally opened to the incontrovertible truth that, despite passing his kahs-wan on the first attempt where many of his peers had not, regardless of his many accomplishments since then, both personally and academically, his father's people would never be able to accept him as a true Vulcan.

Out of options and soon to be out of time, logically, the decision would have to be made based on what amounted to the best choice for him, personally.

There would be many avenues open to him, in a number of fields for which he had shown an aptitude should he pursue a career at the VSA as his father expected, but it was all theoretical knowledge. If he were to satisfy the curiosity that burned within him, a gift from his mother, and the last, most stubborn portion of his human half he had yet been able to master, or control, then Starfleet would be the most fulfilling route.

He would have a chance to put his scientific knowledge to use, personally experiencing the discoveries and breakthroughs that would be a by-product of being a pioneer on the last, infinitely vast frontier known to any sentient race – the ability to unravel first-hand the mysteries of the universe.

And on Earth, among human peers, he would be judged by how Vulcan they perceived him, not how human. In this steaming cauldron of humanity, overflowing with primitive wants, desires and emotions, he would show himself to be able to rise above all of it, despite being thrust directly into its midst. His ability to distance himself from these human weaknesses, to remain unaffected by them would prove once and for all – to himself at least if not to others – that he had completely mastered his human side, had effectively caged and corralled it, only allowing the outside world to see his Vulcan face.

His father would not understand, and his mother would be caught in the middle, forced to divide her allegiance between her husband and her son, but of everyone, he worried the least about her. She was human, after all, a most splendid example of the resilience inherent in her race, and he knew she would manage, and find a way to survive it.

His father was another matter. A dutiful Vulcan son was expected to follow in his father's footsteps, or at least follow the path chosen for him by the family patriarch. To break with tradition would be akin to turning his back on his father's advice, dismissing that vision of his future, and it would be interpreted by many on his home planet as irrefutable evidence that he had not excised his human half. But he could no longer think about that; could no longer live his life according to what others wanted, or expected of him.

He reread the response he had formulated:

_To: Admiral Aguilar, Dean of Admissions, Starfleet Academy_

_From: Spock of Vulcan_

_Subject: Admission to cadet class of 2252_

_Admiral,_

_It is with great honor that I accept this billet you have graciously offered me. I look forward to the challenges which will be presented to me, both during my tenure as a midshipman, and as a future officer in the service of Starfleet and the Federation._

_Most humbly,_

_Spock of Vulcan_

Satisfied with the content, he hit 'send,' setting events into motion that would once and for all indelibly alter the course of his future.


	11. Milestones  take two

**Milestones - Kirk**

It simply wouldn't do. He didn't believe in the no-win scenario. There were always options, no matter what his instructors thought. That's what they should be teaching, not being ready to give in, to admit defeat.

He'd already taken the test twice and failed both times, despite intense preparation, despite hours of poring over old ship's logs and countless volumes analyzing the battlefield tactics used by the greatest and most successful military minds history had to offer from Alexander the Great to Garth of Izar.

He hadn't gone in blind, or ill-equipped, and in spite of the rumors he'd heard from upperclassmen he hadn't been willing to resign himself to the fact that he would fail miserably, just as the long, unbroken line of students who preceded him had done.

On the other hand, he reasoned, maybe it was not meant to be a test of tactical knowledge, or even fitness for command, but a test of character. Nevertheless the efforts had left him with the metallic taste of failure on his tongue, undiminished by the fact that he had received high marks both times for his ingenuity and steadfast sense of calm in the face of certain death.

Ingenuity – now there was an interesting angle. All his life, he'd been one to think outside the box, much to the constant distress of his mother. As a child, he'd been able to talk his way out of anything, come up with a perfectly plausible excuse for something he'd done, or hadn't done, much to the delight of his older brother. Sam had learned early on that whenever they were called on the carpet for something, letting Jimmy do the talking was the sure-fire way to guarantee that in the end their punishment would be a minor one.

Rolling onto his stomach and hugging his pillow to his chest, a plan began to coalesce out of the darkness. It started with the Kobayashi Maru program itself. What if there was a way to modify it? He sighed. He was good with computers, but not that good. A sudden flash of inspiration – he had friends who were quite gifted when it came to writing code, though, and a little roundabout poking and prodding was sure to get him the information he needed. A few innocent questions, a plea for help with a program he was working on for extra credit – it was perfect.

Access wouldn't be a problem, either. The upperclassman in charge of the simulation lab had been drooling over him for a year now, and she was certainly not unattractive or anything. If he played his cards right, he could definitely swing that, too.

Once he had everything straight in his mind, he flipped onto his back again, preparing for sleep. He'd start the ball rolling tomorrow, and when the time came for him to make his third attempt, scheduled for next week in fact, he'd be more than ready.

oooOOOooo

The doors opened, but this time no acrid smoke, or the smell of burning computer circuits was sucked out into the corridor beyond. The stunned faces of his fellow cadets manning the stations in the mock-up unit, as well as those of his instructors, filing silently into the breach in the wall said it all. He had succeeded; the first cadet ever in the history of the Academy to defeat the no-win scenario. Against all odds he had saved not only his own ship, but the Kobayashi Maru as well, with no loss of life.

In that instant, a wave of nausea enveloped him as he came to realize the enormity of what he had done: he'd cheated! He'd been willing to sacrifice his personal integrity to ensure victory. Or had he? It wasn't like he'd cheated on an academic exam in hopes of bettering his grade. What he'd done was sacrifice his values, his core beliefs, in exchange for the safety of his fabricated ship and crew and to spare the lives of everyone aboard the imaginary Kobayashi Maru.

Perhaps this wasn't the test of character his instructors had envisioned, but he learned much about himself during those tense few moments. He had just proven to himself that he'd be willing to do whatever it took, no matter the personal cost, to guarantee the survival of his ship and crew.

He stood frozen in the center of the room, hands balled into fists at his side, sweating despite the icy chill of silence that hung in the air. Maybe they'd commend him for original thinking, maybe they'd expel him in disgrace for cheating, but no matter the outcome he had learned a valuable lesson that day – should he actually make captain someday, nothing would ever be more important to him than his ship or the lives of his crew.


	12. Outside the Comfort Zone

**A/N:** The prompt was 'Outside the Comfort Zone,' which I took to the extreme, writing for a character I never have before (my comfort zone), about a difficult situation for him (his comfort zone), all centered in an episode I really didn't like very much (not a good place to look for inspiration).

**Outside the Comfort Zone**

"Irina, thank God I found you. It's late and we have to get back before curfew," he said, sinking down on the bench next to her. He'd been looking for her for over an hour, visiting all their favorite haunts before finally finding her here in Golden Gate Park.

"Why? Are you going to report me, Pasha?"

"No, but—"

"Then leave me alone."

"But we need to go, right now. If we get caught it will mean disciplinary action and possibly suspension, especially for you," he tried to reason, eyeing Irina purposefully. He found the urge to do what was right warring with his desire to fit in, to be young, carefree, impulsive. It had always been so. "This won't be your first offense."

"Oh Pavel. You just don't understand, do you? It doesn't matter – disciplinary action, suspension – none of it. I'm not going back – ever. I've decided the Academy isn't right for me after all."

The shock of her words hit him as if he'd been doused with ice-cold water. "But why? I thought this is what you wanted, what _we_ wanted. We worked so hard to get here, Irina. You're a brilliant scientist. Doesn't that _mean_ anything to you?" He paused, striving to find the right words, the right argument to make her see reason. "We had no chance to make anything of our lives in the small town where we grew up, but through hard work and dedication we made it, got accepted to Starfleet Academy. What about all those dreams we had as children – to travel the stars, to be on the cutting edge of scientific discoveries? Are you prepared to give all that up?"

"Oh Pasha, don't you see? I'm not like you – this regimented, disciplined, ordered lifestyle is killing me, changing me, making me into someone I'm not. I can't stay here any longer and be true to myself." Her gaze softened and she reached out, gently caressing his cheek. "You could come with me, you know."

He batted her hand away. "And do what?" he retorted angrily. "Starfleet…and you…are all I've ever wanted in life." He grasped her arms, shaking her slightly. "I thought you felt the same."

"I did. It's not my feelings for you that have changed, but my goals in life."

"What goals? Where will you go? What will you do? You're throwing everything you ever had – your intellect, your career…me – away on a whim." He fought for control, to remain calm, rational in the hopes of changing her mind. "Is it because of me? Have I done something—?"

"No! Don't even think that, talk like that. It's just that we're so different."

"Are we? Are we really?"

"How can you ask me that?" She smiled thinly at him. "All our lives I have always been trying to get you into trouble and you've been trying to keep me out of trouble. That was fine when we were kids, playing at life, but this is for real, this is for keeps. I understand now that while this lifestyle is a perfect fit for you, it will be a death sentence for me – it's making me into someone, something I don't like very much."

"Irina, please." Much as he strove to suppress it, desperation was creeping into his tone. "You're just upset. I know it hit you hard when Misha was killed on his first landing party duty – it hit me hard, too, but that makes me want to continue all the more, to honor his memory by making him proud of us." Misha was their friend who had graduated last year and been assigned as a security guard to the _Farragut_. "Come back with me. Everything will look better in the morning."

"It has nothing to do with Misha. It has to do with technology. It's gotten out of hand, Pavel, and if we're not careful, it will be our undoing – and not just ours, but the primitive societies we'll encounter all over the galaxy."

"You're wrong! That's why we have the Prime Directive, to guarantee the safety of any culture we discover."

"Oh Pavel – always so trusting, so naïve. What do you think will happen when we stumble upon a primitive society whose planet is rich in dilithium, or pergium, or neutronium?"

He could only stare mutely at her. "Haven't you paid attention in class the last two years? We're not Klingons, or Romulans. Without the Federation many of the known races in the galaxy would suffer without our protection." A pause as he searched her face, suddenly seeing a stranger instead of the friend he'd known for most of his life. "What happened to you, Irina?"

"Nothing. I'm just looking at the world through different eyes now, and I've come to realize there's more than one way to do things." She sighed, her gaze intent upon his. "My priorities have changed, and for the better, I think."

"You can't mean that?"

"Oh but I do. Face it Pasha – I'm not going back – not tonight, not ever."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them as he reached for her hand.

"Go on, you'd better get back – I don't want you to get in trouble because of me," she admonished softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I'm not going back without you – I love you, Irina."

"And I love you Pavel, but I can't go back – not even for you. So it's up to you now – either me or Starfleet."

He felt like his heart was imploding as he climbed slowly to his feet. "I have to go back."

"I know. I want you to, but I also wanted you to make the choice. You need to do this for _you._ As much as I need to be gone, you need to be here. If you don't stay, at some point you'll wind up resenting me for it for the rest of your life."

He pulled her to her feet, kissing her one last time, a wistful, bittersweet moment. "Will I ever see you again?"

"You can count on it."

"How will I find you?"

"Don't worry, I'll find you."

He pressed her into a hug, each clinging to the other tightly, desperately, before he broke the embrace and turned on his heel, starting for the Academy, and home.


	13. Unrequited

**A/N:** The prompt was 'unrequited,' whether it be love, hate, respect – what have you. We were encouraged to think outside the box. For me, I went waaaaaaaaaaaay outside…

**Unrequited**

It just wasn't fair. Why did they love him more? It's not like his counterpart's namesake was better than his own or anything – had contributed more to the early discoveries of space than those of the great man after whom he was named.

And yet, the other was always their first choice; he'd gone on so many more adventures – he'd been to the Gamma Canaris region of space, the planet Vulcan, battled a malevolent, gargantuan space creature, helping Mister Spock to save the ship and her entire crew in the process, and even set foot on the mythical planet of Eden.

But the other certainly wasn't perfect – far from it. When he'd failed to return from his very first mission – an encounter with the Murasaki 312 quasar-like phenomenon – no one batted an eye. He wasn't held responsible in the least; as a matter of fact, his replacement had been assigned and brought aboard at their next stopover at a Starbase, this twin stepping in seamlessly to fill the other's shoes. To add insult to injury, this young upstart had even been given the same name as his predecessor. That had hurt!

He just didn't get it. Five years – five _long_ years – of inaction. He hadn't bought it on his very first mission like the other had. How could dying have possibly made the other appear more trustworthy than him in their eyes? He was up to the task, just as capable, just as reliable as his counterpart. Why was it that he was never selected for _anything_?

Once he believed he'd gone on a mission with Mister Spock and lieutenants Sulu and Uhura, a grand adventure searching to unlock the mysteries of an ancient civilization, but it turned out that was only a dream; a figment of his overactive imagination; a concrete manifestation of his desire to _do_ rather than sit back and watch.

Even years later, after their original ship had been destroyed, he thought he might fare better on this newer, sleeker, more advanced _Enterprise_, but he'd been sadly mistaken. They still acted like he didn't exist. He would never be the go-to guy.

Once again, when the shit hit the fan and they had been tasked by Command to head out on a special mission before the _Enterprise-A_ had even been able to complete her shakedown cruise, he was left sitting on the sidelines. As had happened so often in the past, he'd been passed over for glory. The other had been selected to go and retrieve the captain, first officer and the ship's CMO since the transporters were still not operational.

And so the cycle continued. It seemed they would always prefer the other over him; he just didn't understand _why_. It wasn't like he'd failed to protect the crew in the past; left them stranded in space or anything. He was just as good as his counterpart – why was he always denied a chance to prove it?

But things had not gone as planned on this latest mission to the Planet of Galactic Peace. His 'friend' was hurt, unable to function, and now his time had come at last – his chance to show them what he was made of. _Finally I've been given the opportunity to prove my worth. They won't be sorry they trusted me – I won't let anything happen to them – even that renegade who got us into this mess in the first place. From this day forward, there'll be a new hero everyone will turn to when the going gets tough._

But as _Copernicus_ felt his hull peeled open like a banana, his considerable mass unceremoniously tossed about like a rag doll by the incensed energy being of Sha Ka Ree as it strove to pry the captain from the sanctuary of his interior, he thought about _Galileo_, damaged but safely aboard _Enterprise_. Now he fully understood what the humans meant when they said, "Be careful what you wish for…"

oooOOOooo

**End note: **All the above-mentioned missions/events were actually ones where the _Galileo_ was used, from TOS to ST: V, and the reference to the _Copernicus'_ dream comes from the TAS episode 'The Slaver Weapon.' TAS isn't considered canon, so hence just 'a dream.' ;-)


	14. Legacies

**A/N: **This is my first foray into ST: 2009. But if it's written from Spock Prime's POV, does that really count as reboot? ;-)

**Legacies**

_It was the best of times; it was the worst of times._ A friend had asked him once if there was a message contained in those words, but that had been another time, another _life._

When that friend had questioned him, so very long ago, he really hadn't understood the significance of that simple statement; now, the meaning was suddenly, painfully clear. That quote was the very definition of the dichotomy that had become his life.

_It was the worst of times_.

Here he had lost everything – his planet, his mother, his friends, the universe as he knew it, and his place within. All that had vanished in one irretrievable instant. Thanks to one mistake, one failure, he had irrevocably changed all that he was; all that he knew.

That would be his legacy here, now, in this place, in this time, for there was no going back, no way to undo the cataclysm he had unwittingly unleashed, bringing about the destruction of the very essence of who he had been, of his life as he had come to know it.

Once upon a time he had foolishly, arrogantly believed the legacy he would leave behind would be quite different: First officer of the only ship to survive her five-year mission; architect of the peace process with the Klingons; the person who would eventually bring about the reunification of the Vulcan and the Romulan people. But this was not to be. Henceforth – if only in his own mind – he would be remembered as the man who had single-handedly altered the known universe. But for those people living here, and now, this _was_ their reality. He was the only one who could see the echoes of that other time, that other place.

And yet, logic told him he must not focus on that. Kaiidth – what is, is. There was no point in dwelling on that which he could not change. There was so much that needed to be done now to ensure the survival of his race; to heal the wounds of this time, this reality. That would be the one, the only way to redeem himself; to make amends for his transgression.

_It was the best of times. _

He sighed, remembering the scene he had witnessed earlier. The James Kirk of this timeline, of this alternate reality, was receiving a commendation for his valor, his bravery, his actions that had saved Earth from following in the footsteps of Vulcan. This James Kirk had managed to thwart Nero, stopping the crazed Romulan from destroying Earth as well. This younger version was much like the man he'd left behind in another world, another time, and yet so very different.

And now, this intractable maverick had been given command of the _Enterprise_. There could be no other outcome. It was this man's birthright; his first, best destiny. It seemed some things were a constant no matter the parallel universe.

But there were other positives as well. His mentor and former captain, Christopher Pike, while still severely injured, unable to continue as Captain of the _Enterprise_, had not suffered the same fate as before. His only hope was that some good should come out of all this, to offset the tragedies that had already unfolded.

This time, his captain, his friend, need not die alone, sucked out into the void of space through a hull breach on the _Enterprise B_, only to emerge in the Nexus and die a second time, almost eight decades later, on Veridian III. Mr. Scott need not spend the better part of seventy-five years trapped in a transporter buffer. Perhaps his alternate self could avoid his own death – things might play out differently with Khan, if the alternate versions of those he remembered so well were to even encounter the man at all in this new timeline – thereby averting the death of Jim's son at the hands of the Klingons.

And he had set his younger self – a man still adrift, searching for himself, his place in this universe – on the path to the friendship that would come to define two men, making each stronger together than they were separately. The friendship that would ultimately grant that other self the serenity he sought, even were he as yet unaware of that fact.

This was now _their_ legacy; he would have no further part in it. These two young men were about to embark on the friendship he remembered, had come to treasure, but that man, the brother-in-arms of his youth, was long gone. For him, there was to be no second chance. He had no right to this 'new' version of the friend he had once called brother. That right belonged to the other; the 'different,' the 'alternate' version of himself. He must now let things unfold according to the rules that governed this time and place.

He had already lived that past life; the future now belonged to the young.


	15. Food For Thought

**A/N:** The prompt was 'Food For Thought.' This short is based on events depicted in my story 'Shadows and Dust,' as well as those from 'ST: V TFF' and 'Generations.' The only stipulation was that food figure into the story somehow. I decided to go a slightly different route than would normally be done. :'(

**Food For Thought**

It was his granddaughter's birthday – she was turning nineteen today. Joanna had invited him over for a surprise party. She had planned a casual barbecue, asking him to come a little early and help her prepare some of the dishes.

It would be like old times – the two of them had spent many happy hours together in the kitchen when he'd retired from Starfleet after his first five-year mission. Once they'd found each other again, they'd worked hard at reconnecting as father and daughter after so many years apart. The time they had spent getting reacquainted had been some of the happiest years of his life. In light of that he had readily agreed to offer her whatever help he could today – but not just for the chance it would give him to spend some quality time with his only child now that she had a family of her own. He was looking for something, _anything_ to keep his mind off what had happened a few short weeks ago.

He rang the doorbell, carefully balancing his precious cargo on one arm, while mopping at a sweat-soaked brow – a side effect of the intense Georgian summer – with the other.

His daughter opened the door, pressing him into a brief hug and kissing his cheek. "Dad. So glad you could make it. Amanda will be thrilled. Thanks so much for agreeing to help me with this. It's more than I can handle myself," she remarked, relieving him of the large box he had picked up on his way here. "Thanks for stopping to get the cake for me. What with Mark off distracting our daughter, and the guests due to start arriving in a few hours, I just didn't see how I'd have time to do it."

"My pleasure. Anything for my sweet, little Amanda, you know that," he said, grinning widely.

"Need I remind you she's not so little anymore," his daughter admonished facetiously, turning and heading down the hall, a muffled sigh escaping from compressed lips. "I can't believe my little girl is a grown woman now."

"She'll always be my little princess, just like you'll always be my 'Dandy Lion,'" he assured her, albeit somewhat wistfully as well, falling in step beside her.

He followed her into the kitchen, an impressive array of fresh salads, fruit platters, and a varied selection of finger-foods already lining the counter.

"It looks like you're about done with the side dishes already. You don't want to start grilling the meats until people get here, right?" he asked, opening the refrigerator and surveying the assortment of sausages, ribs, chicken and burgers arranged neatly within with no small measure of satisfaction.

"No, the meat can wait, and I'm about done with everything else – I just have to make several pans of peach cobbler," she remarked, depositing the cake amid the substantial mound of food, "But I wanted you to make our special family recipe baked beans – they never taste quite as good when I do it." Joanna favored him with a warm smile.

He tried to return it, but found his to be lacking the same intensity. He saw the shadow of confusion touch her face briefly, but she recovered quickly. "Here's the pot – I've already got the beans in there," she said brightly, pointing to a large vessel on the counter, "and all the seasonings you'll need are in that drawer," she finished, indicating a large, two-handled affair to the right of the stove.

As he moved to the counter, opening the drawer, he could feel the pressure building behind his eyes. He hadn't expected, nor been prepared for, the intense flood of grief seeing the pot of beans had triggered. The last time he had made these, the three of them had been together. But that would never happen again.

Not now. Not ever.

He leaned heavily on his arms, hands splayed out before him on the smooth, marble countertop, not seeing the present, but being accosted by a constant barrage of images from the past. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, muddying those ethereal mirages from yesteryear. Startled, he turned to meet his daughter's gaze.

"And here's the super-secret ingredient," she added, bottle of bourbon in hand, eyes twinkling. She started to offer it to him, but his profound anguish must have been clearly written on his face. Setting the bottle down, she focused her full attention on him. "Dad? What's wrong?"

He found himself unable to answer around the lump in his throat, the tears threatening to spill forth.

"Dad? Are you okay? You're scaring me." Her tone was anxious, her heart palpitating rapidly as she searched his face, her grip on his shoulder tightening, her gaze intent upon his.

He reached out, grabbing her other hand and pressing it between his own. "I'm sorry honey." He paused, closing his eyes briefly; trying to ease the shuddering wracking his form, he drew a steadying breath. "It's just that the last time I made these, it was in Yosemite for Jim and Spock. I was just thinking how I'll never be able to do that again."

"Oh dad, I'm so sorry – I had no idea," she said apologetically, tugging him into a fierce embrace. Now it all made perfect sense. The _Enterprise-B_ had gone on her maiden voyage seventeen days ago, her ex-captain, one-time chief engineer and former navigator/tactical officer, along with a huge collection of press, on hand for the auspicious occasion. The Starfleet Brass had asked her dad and Mr. Spock to be there as well, but each had had other commitments that kept them from attending.

But things had not gone according to plan. The ship had run into some trouble, and there had been one casualty aboard – a death that had rocked the very foundations of Starfleet – that had hit her dad particularly hard. Ever since the accident that had claimed Jim Kirk's life more than two weeks ago, her father had been fraught with remorse, feeling that if they'd been there, if _he'd_ been there, he could have prevented the tragedy somehow.

But there was nothing to be done now. It was too late for that. All she could do at the moment was to hold him close as the tears came.


	16. Dandy Lion

A/N: Okay, so I lied. ;-) This prompt was actually a generic idea that had to involve kids in some way, shape, or form. Since I felt 'Kids' lacked a certain punch, the chapter title is drawn from McCoy's nickname for his daughter.

**Dandy Lion**

These were the times he loved the most. It was as if the crazy gyroscope that was his life stopped twisting and spinning, became frozen in place, whenever he felt her small hand in his. No patients, no life-or-death decisions, no mounds of paperwork or schedules to be coordinated – just time to live, to breathe, to _be._

He glanced down at the small being walking contentedly at his side, and felt his heart go supernova when she graced him with a beatific grin, golden and radiant like the sun. So far he had done many things in his young life; had suffered, sacrificed and struggled to get where he was today. His hard work and dedication had paid off, and he had already published several papers espousing new ideas that would one day become the gold standard for how things were done in his field, but this tiny, perfect being was by far his greatest accomplishment.

And it really hadn't been up to him. Oh he'd enjoyed immensely the shared moment of passion that had resulted in bringing this bundle of pure energy and light into the world, but her uniqueness, her sense of self, everything that made up the essence that was _Joanna_, had all been driven by the Fates, or God, or the mystery of science that was creation – whatever you wanted to call it. His DNA had combined with that of Jocelyn's in ways neither could have guessed or imagined to produce this precious, precocious, totally awe-inspiring child that could always manage to reduce him to a quivering mass of putty in her hands with a hearty giggle, a shy smile, or even an endless fount of tears.

At one time he had thought he'd had everything he could possibly want out of life – a thriving, successful career, a beautiful, supportive wife and the satisfaction of being able to give back to mankind, to make a difference in the lives of those who needed it the most – so he'd been completely caught off guard by the profound impact this one tiny, insignificant life form had had on the world as he had come to know it. For him, she had instantly become the most significant element bound to his existence; the most important thing in the universe the first time he had gazed into that red, wrinkled face, eyes squinted tightly shut against the harsh light of the world into which she'd been born. She was beautiful, and special, and everything else faded into the realm of the immaterial the moment their two lives had become intertwined.

A tug on his hand brought him out of his silent reverie.

"Daddy, didja 'member to bring the bread to feed the duckies?"

"Yes, sweetheart, I have it right here," he said, hefting the small paper sack in his other hand.

"It's hot," she announced forcefully, deftly shifting the course of the conversation without missing a beat as only a child can do. She stopped, planting both her little feet firmly and reaching upwards with a pair of chubby arms. "Carry me? My legs are tired."

He bent, scooping her up with one arm and settling her three-year-old frame comfortably on a hip, her squeal of delight warming his heart, once again making the world around them disappear. For all he knew there could have been earthquakes, tornadoes, hailstorms, or even a violent, full-fledged attack from spaceborn alien ships, but he wouldn't have noticed. The only thing he was conscious of was this priceless, shared moment in time between father and daughter.

"Thanks daddy," she crooned gleefully, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a wet kiss on his cheek. Her sun-kissed head came to rest on his shoulder with a contented sigh.

A few more minutes of walking brought them to the small lake, a whole flock of ducks, geese and swans gliding lazily across the smooth surface. Depositing her on her feet he handed her the bag of stale bread. Slipping her hand into his once again, they approached the water's edge.

Used to being fed, the loose gaggle of water fowl started heading in their direction at a brisk pace. Joanna spent several happy minutes tossing chunks of bread to the disorderly assemblage amid peals of laughter, loud, assertive quacks and a considerable amount of splashing as the birds jostled to get their fair share. Unfortunately, she reached the bottom of the bag all too soon for her tastes.

"More, daddy," she said plaintively, turning wide eyes on him and dropping the empty sack on the ground.

"That's all there is, honey, we'll come back another day," he assured her patiently, retrieving the bag and stuffing it into his pocket.

The feeding frenzy over, the birds began straggling back to the middle of the lake in small groups of twos and threes. Inexplicably, this set Joanna off as if they were purposely taunting her. "Come back here, duckies!" she hollered, stamping her foot, hands on her hips, an angry frown settling in place where a silly grin had resided moments before.

"C'mon honey, we can come back tomorrow," he pleaded, grasping her hand and attempting to lead her back the way they had come.

"I don't wanna go!" she screamed, digging in her heels. "I wanna feed the duckies!" He was now taking notice of their surroundings, other people who were enjoying the serenity of the pond shooting quizzical, concerned looks his way as the intensity of Joanna's protests continued to rise.

Once again he scooped up his daughter, but this time there were no kisses or sighs of contentment. The writhing mass of fury that only a short time ago had been his darling little girl now pummeled his chest with tiny fists amid piercing screams of rage. The face that was buried against his neck several minutes later left wet patches on his shoulder.

As her heated objections continued to ring in his ears, he sighed heavily. Such were the joys and pitfalls of parenting. It was exactly this duality of her personality that had given rise to his nickname for her – 'Dandy Lion.' A play on words, there were times when her glowing, youthful exuberance reminded him of dandelions, the yellow flowers hearty, heartwarming and plentiful like her infectious smiles, but there was also a 'lion' side to her – a quick temper that no doubt sprang from his side of the family – and whenever she decided to throw a fit, it was always a 'dandy'…just like this one.


	17. You're Too Late

**You're Too Late**

"You're too late – he's already gone," she snapped at the sound of his familiar footsteps echoing on the stone floor behind her. Given what had happened today, he had expected to find her here. Whirling to face him head on, he noted the anger smoldering in the crystal blue eyes, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. "I saw him off at the spaceport over an hour ago," she finished hotly.

In twenty odd years, he still hadn't quite figured out what to do, what to say, how to _handle _a situation like this. He fell back on the tried and true – what felt right to him. "It is for the best. He did not want me there."

Unfortunately, it was definitely not the right thing for _her_. "Maybe he did, maybe he didn't, but one thing's for sure – I did – and you knew it! Besides, he already knew you disapproved of his choice. But he's your _son_. Doesn't that _mean_ anything to you? You didn't even say goodbye."

"I no longer consider him to be my son – if he were, he would have acquiesced to my wishes, as I did the wishes of my own father."

"Well, maybe that attitude flies here, but it certainly doesn't on _my_ world." The blue eyes hardened to chips of gray flint. "He's _my_ son, too you know! Why isn't that part of him ever allowed to show, even a little?"

He suppressed a sigh. "We have already discussed this, my wife. Years ago, our son made the decision himself to follow the rules and customs of this world. And now, given the first chance to do so, he has forsaken that path."

"How _dare_ you! He didn't _forsake_ it; he was pushed from it – forbidden to walk it by those who could only see his differences." Abruptly halting her declamation, she drew a steadying breath, taking a few steps which brought her to a large window overlooking her garden. She raised her eyes to the deep red sky. "So much for IDIC – brave and noble words spoken by hypocrites who don't really understand their meaning, or practice the example they are meant to espouse," she added tersely.

He approached, standing just behind her, their shoulders almost touching. "You are angry," he said simply.

A derisive chuckle bubbled up from within. "You're damn right I am. I gave up everything – my home, my way of life, my heritage – to make a life here with you and our son, and do you know why?"

One thing he had learned over the years they had been together was to _never_ answer one of her rhetorical questions. To do so was guaranteed to bring her wrath down even more heavily upon him. He remained politely silent, waiting for her to make her point.

"Because I _believed_ in it – I really thought it was a better way than ours – no wars, no bigotry, no hatred, no crime – just serenity, peace, logic.

"But when I would watch Spock come home from school as a boy, anguished, upset but doing his best to hide it because the other boys tormented him for not being a true Vulcan, I convinced myself that it was because they were children – children are the same all over the galaxy – and they can often be the most cruel, spiteful and hateful examples of their race. I told myself things would change as he got older, mastered the ways of Vulcan and the suppression of emotion; learned the rules that would help him to flourish in this society.

"Haven't you noticed, Sarek? Our son is brilliant, gifted, talented, and to those who don't know of his mixed heritage, just as Vulcan if not more so than his peers. And yet, even the adults here couldn't accept him – can't find it within themselves to look beyond his human half and just see Spock – the unique individual he is."

He watched as tears welled up in her eyes, the vision paining him deep down in a place which he didn't know existed within him until this very moment.

"And now he's gone, and will probably never return." She choked back a sob. She may have lived on his world for twenty years, but that could hardly undo millions of years of human evolution. She was, after all, still human – a product and a prisoner of her alien biology.

"Spock is still quite young by Vulcan standards. Had he pursued a career at the Vulcan Science Academy as we had agreed, it would have given others a chance to view him in a new light," he stated softly, trying to find a way to justify his culture's treatment – _his_ treatment – of his youngest son over the years.

She turned to him, smiling a weak smile that did not reach her eyes. "You really don't understand, do you Sarek? Has it occurred to you that maybe Spock has simply grown weary of trying to win the approval of others? That maybe he doesn't want that approval to be contingent on whether or not he is deemed to be 'Vulcan enough?' That maybe, for once in his life, he just wants to be Spock, and let others approve or disapprove of him based on that fact alone, without any other factors thrown into the mix?"

As he was debating whether or not to respond, whether or not these were more 'rhetorical questions' which would only add to her ever-increasing agitation if answered, she spared him by supplying her own take on things.

"I think for the first time in his life, our son is doing what _he_ wants, following the path that will lead to happiness, fulfillment and contentment for _him_." She crossed the room, sinking onto her son's immaculately made bed and wrapping her arms tightly about herself, as if to keep herself from flying apart.

He watched as she glanced around her, allowing her gaze to come to rest on all of her son's boyhood treasures in turn. In many ways, his bedroom appeared much as it always had when he had made his home here – neat, tidy, everything in its place, objects displayed meticulously throughout reflecting the personality and interests of their owner. Only the absence of their son's most prized possession – a Vulcan lyre – it and its stand gone from its place of honor in a recessed nook on the wall – attested to the now-permanent absence of its former occupant as well.

"I just hope the Academy, and Starfleet, provide him with the answers he is so desperately seeking," his wife lamented in a soft, tortured voice, "and that one day he will be able to forgive us for only seeing fit to try to pull him apart; for encouraging him to favor one side of his dual nature over the other, instead of teaching him how to be whole…" With that, she collapsed into uncontrollable tears of grief and self-recrimination.


	18. Downtime

**Downtime**

The silence was deafening, but in a good way. He released his breath in a protracted sigh of relief. He had made it here without being followed. He knew there would be consequences later, but at the moment he simply didn't care. It was strangely liberating to be away from it all; to be far removed from the stress and pressures of what had become his everyday life.

He surveyed his surroundings with no small measure of satisfaction. It was highly unlikely anyone would find him here, and he had brought enough provisions for several days. Using them sparingly, he could stretch that to a week, eight days at the outside if need be. That should give him adequate time to sort things out.

Shafts of light cast off from the thin flame of the burning magnesite-nitron pellet he had ignited threw eerie shadows on the domed roof and walls that danced and twisted in time to the sigh of the wind kissing the flickering column of blue and gold.

While it provided adequate illumination inside his small stone fortress, heating was minimal and he pulled his softsuit more tightly about him in an effort to ward off the desert chill whistling through the small entrance to the cave, carried along by the intermittent breeze.

Nibbling distractedly on a piece of chollum bread, he reflected on the events that had brought him here.

It had been three years since he had made the decision that had set his feet on the course his life would take. A decision he still stood behind he reminded himself, but one that was proving much more difficult than he had initially anticipated.

Not so much on his end – having made the choice to live his life as a Vulcan he was finding the mental techniques of meditation and mastery of emotions easier to assimilate and utilize now, once his focus had been given a clear, distinct direction.

The difficulty did not stem from within, but without. Despite performing at levels – both academically and mentally – which were consistent with or even surpassed those of his peers, there were many who were still unable to see beyond the conspicuousness of his biology; were able to focus only on the fact that he was 'different.'

Unfortunately, he felt the sting of classification even within his own family unit. Despite his best efforts, and theirs as well, each parent still defined him by the traits of the other. It seemed to be all they could see in him. His father tended to be more vocal, demanding stricter mental discipline or tighter behavioral control as a way to purge what he considered undesirable qualities. With his father there was no gray area; he knew exactly what was expected of him.

Undeniably, it was his mother's actions he found the most confusing. She rarely, if ever, had anything negative to say, but the despair visible in her eyes at times wounded him to the very depths of his soul, the feeling complicated by the fact that he didn't understand the nature of her pain. Unlike his father, for the longest time with her he was unsure if it was disappointment with him or an overwhelming, compassionate anguish meant to be sympathetic to his unique situation.

Today, he had unwittingly been made to understand. Hoping to catch a glimpse of a small, inconsequential comet scheduled to pass through the heavens tonight, he had slipped quietly out of bed and made his way outside to his mother's terraced garden – it afforded a much less restricted view of the night sky than the one available from his bedroom window. It was on the return trip, an hour and a half later, that he had heard muffled voices coming from behind the door to his father's study.

"He has made tremendous mental progress over the last few years, but he still needs to work on physical discipline. His face still often betrays the thoughts and emotions residing behind it," his father announced, the banality of his delivery completely incongruous with the content of the statement.

"As does yours on occasion," his mother retorted hotly. "He's not an automaton, Sarek, nor should you want him to be. It's not like he laughs, or smiles, or says or does things that are disrespectful. He is the epitome of a dutiful Vulcan son.

"And for anyone who doesn't know of his parentage, he presents a totally Vulcan face to the outside world. Most people are shocked to learn of his mixed heritage. And you know, after thirteen years of living on this planet, I can often read the thoughts and emotions of my co-workers in their eyes or on their faces, not to mention yours," his mother quipped.

"I am aware of that, my wife, but as I have indicated to Spock, there are those who will judge him solely by his hybrid nature. In many ways, Spock will need to show himself to be superior to his peers if he wishes to be held above reproach."

"I don't understand why our son has to be held to a higher standard than those around him."

Most assuredly, the conversation had continued, but he had not paused outside the door, unwilling to actively participate in the act of espionage. Regrettably, he had heard more than enough in passing, the callous remarks not meant for wider dissemination producing feelings of remorse and inadequacy within him. It seemed no matter how he conducted himself he was unable to please his parents.

These voices and images faded into the background as he basked in the serenity of solitude. While at home, trying desperately to fit into a world not made for him, he found himself pulled in numerous directions; here there was only tranquility, and harmony, and a refreshing absence of scrutiny. The decision to flee had apparently been correct, at least for him. The punishment his parents would mete out once they discovered his absence remained to be seen, but at this juncture, that was secondary to his peace of mind.

Giving in to the call of his body, he slipped into the sleeping bag he had brought with him, snuggling deep into the sudden warmth. He was bone-tired; an hour-long trek through the mountains in the dead of night would be exhausting for anyone, but for a ten-year-old, used to being fast asleep many hours before this, it was positively draining.

For now he'd rest, and tomorrow he would meditate long and hard on what he had overheard in an effort to find a solution which would appease everyone. But most of all, he would enjoy the freedom, the independence, the respite from constantly being under a microscope. At the very least, he'd be able to spend a few days reveling in the chance to simply _be._


	19. Missing You

**Missing You**

He lay sprawled on his stomach on the hard, Starfleet-issue bunk, hugging his pillow tightly to his chest. But that did little to ease the painful void in his heart, the all-consuming hollowness in his gut.

He missed her, their small hometown, his country, his _language._ He had thought he'd conquered these feelings of isolation long ago; had relegated them to the back burner of his mind, never allowing them to stand in the way of the goals he had set for himself as a small child. Goals _they_ had set for themselves. It had always been so. Ever since he could remember, they had been a team. At first, it had been with the childlike wonder and innocence of two kids at play, laughing and talking together; scheming together; making plans together; sharing secrets and dreams as only children can.

As they grew into young adults they realized these similar ambitions and a common purpose had solidified, binding them inextricably to one another. And just as the goals had matured, so had the feelings, moving from the shared experiences, the highs and lows, the trials and tribulations of youth, to the quiet ache and passionate desperation of romantic love.

Leaving the incorruptibility of childhood behind them, their aspirations had become ever larger, more vast and sweeping, and yet more focused, driven. First, against the express wishes of their parents, they had left their small town of Kashin to attend better, more prestigious schools in the capital. Each was gifted with an aptitude for innumerable intellectual pursuits, and these schools played to those strengths, had curriculums which more closely paralleled their hunger for knowledge in those areas, and would help them reach their ultimate goal.

Despite their marked differences in personality – she was much more of a free spirit, carried along by the whims and follies of the moment whereas he was stiff, much more regimented in his thoughts and actions – they were able to work together, help each other bring all their hard work and sacrifices to fruition; both were accepted as cadets at Starfleet Academy.

During their time at the prestigious institution he had made friends, as had she, even among fellow countrymen who were upper classmen, but these were casual acquaintances, not comparable in the least to the unique bond they shared. They had been together so long, leaned on each other, at times carried one another, each entrusting their soul to the other for such a large portion of their young lives that when fate finally drove them apart initially he had wondered if he'd be able to survive it.

His mind drifted to the first time she had left him. "Oh Pasha, don't you see? I'm not like you," she had said. "This regimented, disciplined, ordered lifestyle is killing me, changing me, making me into someone I'm not. I can't stay here any longer and be true to myself."

The shock of those unexpected words had left him breathless and reeling. He knew this future was what he wanted, what he'd always aspired to; that there was no other choice possible for him, but he'd never in his wildest dreams imagined he'd wind up pursuing it without her at his side. Their destinies had been intertwined for as long as he could remember.

That night she'd given him a choice – an ultimatum, really – each knowing instinctively there could only be one outcome. "You can come with me," she'd said, and for a nanosecond he'd considered it. It had come down to this: Do what his heart told him to do and follow her, or stay behind and listen to his head. Yet even as he felt his heart splinter into a million tiny, razor-sharp shards of glass, he knew his head would win out in the end.

They had each gone their separate ways that terrible night and it had taken him days, weeks, months, to get over the incident. During that dark time, he hadn't really been living, but merely existing, subsisting, throwing himself blindly into his studies in an effort to claw his way out of the dark fog that had enveloped him.

It had taken some time but the raw, open wound had healed over, the fragments of his fractured heart gradually sliding back together, leaving the surface criss-crossed with an intricate web of tiny, white scars. It made him more cautious, more distant, more inclined to disappear inside himself, lose himself in books and record tapes rather than risk the fragile bond of friendship, of love, of dependence on another once more.

In time he had learned to live again, to trust again, to find joy in the world, in his friends, in his chosen profession, and when his hard work and dedication led to the posting of a lifetime upon graduation, he was able at last to celebrate the decision he had made. Although he still mourned her loss, it had become secondary, and as his experiences and confidence grew in his new posting, it gradually faded into the non-descript.

But now, just when he thought he had finally freed himself from her influence once and for all, unbelievably, it had happened again. Of all the people he had expected to encounter during his travels, particularly given the mission of his ship, she had been the last one he'd imagined would ever cross his path. But fate has a funny way of finding the ultimate irony in any given situation, and exploiting that for its own selfish end.

Initially, upon hearing her voice, upon _seeing _her again, all the pain, the hurt, the feelings of abandonment and isolation he had carefully banished had resurfaced, threatening to push him off this plateau of independence he had finally reached, but he now realized he had grown, had changed, had come into his own; his life was no longer defined by hers.

This most recent parting had been difficult, of that there was no doubt, but this time the pain was different. He now understood her better, as he did himself. Now it was all too clear that their split had been necessary, inevitable. Had they stayed together they would have wound up hating each other in the end. But that didn't mean he couldn't still miss her; long for the innocence lost, and for the friend she had been, what she had once meant to him.

It seemed she understood him better as well. She had come to say goodbye to him on the bridge before being dropped off at the nearest Starbase with what was left of her group. The chaste kiss they had shared was bittersweet, marked by a subdued longing for each of them, the gesture both a window into what could have been and a vivid reminder of what was. "Be incorrect occasionally," she had joked when they broke the kiss, a gentle hand on his chest.

A smile touched his lips. "And you be correct," he had countered with mock seriousness.

"Occasionally," she had answered wryly, the wistful look that had settled over her features conveying her own remorse for the finality of their situation.

As he pondered that last moment together he knew fate had intervened for a reason, and he silently wished her well. Rolling onto his back he felt the intangible web of scars fall away, the peace of acceptance blotting out the austerity of regret. Goodbye Irina," he whispered to the darkness, finally able to let the memory of her go.

**A/N**: I didn't want to say so at the outset – didn't want to give too much away – but this is a follow-on to my free-write for 'Outside the Comfort Zone.' A working knowledge of the TOS episode 'The Way to Eden' will lend understanding to this piece.


	20. Happy Endings

A/N: My free write entry from last week grew into the story, 'A Mother's Love,' so here's the one for this week. This is a follow-up to my story 'Learning Curve,' and serves as a bridge between that piece and 'Shadows and Dust,' which explores in great detail how Joanna and McCoy reconciled their relationship. No prior knowledge of either work is necessary, as all that one is required to know is explained in the first few paragraphs.

**Happy Endings**

They'd been back from shore leave for a over week now, and he still couldn't bring himself to send Joanna what he'd gotten her on Triani Prime. Sighing heavily, he lifted the lid of the satin box once again, examining the necklace and earrings within. The purple-hued Kaliani he had purchased – the rarest of Trianian native stones – were meant to be given as an apology, to make amends to someone you had wronged in some way, and Lord knows he had much to be sorry for where she was concerned.

While on leave, he and Jim had had numerous discussions about their absent children. Each was estranged from their child for totally different reasons, but they shared a similar, crippling pain.

Much as he'd tried to avoid it, Jim had forced McCoy into discussing his daughter, and offered a simple solution to the problem: "I think maybe you're asking the wrong person, Bones. Send her a tape, along with the jewelry, and ask her these questions, tell her these things that you're telling me, but if you find that you can't do that, at least tell her you're proud of her, that you love her. Let her know what she means to you."

He had felt her absence keenly over the years, but it seemed whenever they talked, things always had a way of deteriorating into a blame game – the conversation usually concluding with Joanna lashing out at him for not being there for much of her childhood.

_And she's right – I did desert her, abandon her_, he'd told himself, _but I was running from the pain of my failed marriage, following a path she couldn't walk with me._ Jim had a valid point, much as he hated to admit it. He could let things go on, with the two of them drifting ever further apart, or he could step up and be the adult, reach out and make her understand how much he regretted his actions of the past; seize the opportunity to set things right again between them.

He knew there was still hope. Despite the tumultuous nature of their relationship, it was built on an undercurrent of love, and longing to recapture their bond of old. At least it was for him, anyway. There was a very good chance that too many things had happened; too much emotional distance now separated them. He'd understand completely if no amount of time would be able to heal the wounds, or erase the errors of the past for Joanna. This was the guilt, the personal burden he bore on a daily basis ever since he had walked out of her life thirteen years ago.

_Quit being a coward, _he chided himself. _That's how you got into this mess in the first place_. For him, Starfleet had been a refuge, a place to hide from his all-consuming anguish, a way to lose himself; separate himself from what might have been, what could have been, what should have been.

Snapping the lid closed on the small, red box and taking a fortifying swallow of the glass of bourbon before him, he slipped a blank tape into the viewer on his desk and hit 'record.'

_Hi Dandy Lion, _he began, _I have a few things to say to you – things I should have had the courage to say years ago. I hope you can forgive me…_

oooOOOooo

He'd sent the Kaliani and the tape over a month ago, and had pretty much given up on getting a reply. The last time he'd spoken to his daughter had been well over a year ago, and the conversation had not gone well, tempers flaring on both sides. Much to his chagrin, it seemed she was a McCoy through and through.

Emerging from the shower, he ran a towel through still-damp hair before crossing to his dresser and retrieving a regulation black tee shirt and briefs from one of the drawers. Slipping them on, he then filled a glass with a few fingers of bourbon before easing himself into the chair at his desk.

It had been a long day, but he still had a few things he simply had to finish before turning in for the night. He powered up the terminal, preparing to compose his SOAP* notes on his last surgical patient of the day – an emergency appendectomy he had completed only a short while ago – when a blinking light at the lower left of the screen, signifying that there was a priority message in his queue, caught his eye.

Going to his inbox, he was stunned to see his daughter's electronic address, the icon to the right indicating she had sent him a video.

Scrubbing shaking fingers across his face, lips turned down into a scowl, he opened the message, steeling himself for the worst. He was utterly shocked when Joanna's face filled the screen, a shy smile on her lips, the deep violet, teardrop-shaped Kaliani dangling from her ears, a hand fluttering at her throat, toying with the necklace he had sent her.

_Hi dad, _she began hesitantly, _I just wanted to thank you for the beautiful, thoughtful gift, but as gorgeous as they are, they didn't compare to the tape you sent me._ She paused, brushing a hand across her cheek, her eyes suddenly very bright and full. _And I agree completely – it's time we worked on our relationship, instead of constantly sniping at one another. You're my dad, and I love you…_

He couldn't stop the stupid, silly grin that stole over his face as he continued to watch the recording from his daughter. At present, both were taking baby steps, but he had been instantly reassured that they could turn things around now. There were signs of progress, and a desire to fix things, on both sides. There would be scars to be sure, but he knew with certainty they'd survive this; eventually be able to make their relationship meaningful, and special, once again.

* SOAP is a medical acronym describing what a physician needs to include in the pertinent notes to a case: _S_ indicates subjective data obtained from the patient and others close to him; _O_ designates objective data obtained by observation, physical examination, diagnostic studies, etc.; _A_ refers to assessment of the patient's status through analysis of the problem, possible interaction of the problems, and changes in the status of the problems; _P_ designates the plan for patient care.


	21. Man's Best Friend

A/N: The only stipulation was that a pet figure into the story. A working knowledge of the events depicted in the TAS episode 'Yesteryear' will add significant understanding to this piece.

**Man's Best Friend**

She couldn't believe he was gone. Her vision blurred as tears filled her eyes, her hand patting the still, majestic head for the last time.

With an aching heart, she remembered the first time he and her son had met.

"Sarek, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"The two will need to become familiarized with each other at some point, my wife." His look was tender, if condescending – at least as much as his Vulcan nature would permit.

Amanda nervously clutched the small wriggling bundle tighter to her chest. "Yes I know but…well, Spock is so _small_ and I'Chaya is so _big,_" she observed with some distress. "He's always been wonderful with us, but a baby might be a little much for him to tolerate, regardless of his even temperament. Perhaps we should wait until Spock's a bit older."

She knew there was a savage, ferocious side to the docile creature. She had seen it with her own eyes as the sehlat had once killed a rogue bajakr – a burly, native mammal similar to but three times the size of a Terran fox. Wounded and violent, the crazed animal had scaled the fence surrounding their property, posing a clear threat to the people living within. I'Chaya had taken matters into his own hands, dispatching it quickly with his six-inch fangs.

"You worry over nothing, my wife. I'Chaya has been in my family for fifty years, now, and in all that time has shown no signs of hostility toward anyone to whom he has been properly introduced, children and adults alike. He will not harm our son," Sarek stated with assurance.

Their son was a little over three months old. Since I'Chaya was not a house pet, but lived primarily in the terraced garden outside, the two had had no reason to interact up to this point.

Sarek gently took the boy from her arms. "Spock will be crawling soon, and walking after that. It is high time for the two to get acquainted." Leaning over, he gently laid the boy on his back in the soft moss that grew in the shade of a nosan bush, right in front of the huge sehlat who was also resting there, seeking refuge from the afternoon heat. Amanda was unable to stifle a gasp of concern as the huge, furry head swung toward the infant, snuffling first his legs, belly, and then the mop of silky black hair atop the small head.

Little feet kicked wildly at the air; little fists grabbed at the moist, black nose as it traveled across his cheek, followed shortly by a wet, pink tongue. Spock had squealed with delight as the large animal licked him again and again.

The sound had relaxed her, a sigh of relief escaping from compressed lips.

"Do you not see, Amanda? Your concern was unnecessary. In the distant past, sehlats were the guardians of a family's offspring, often sacrificing their own lives to protect their young charges from harm." Sarek had quietly taken her hand, leading her to a nearby bench. "Now that they have been properly introduced, I'Chaya will instinctively defend Spock's life with his own."

They sat, observing the scene unfolding before them, Sarek with ease and a measure of detachment, Amanda with barely-concealed nervousness, a hand fluttering back and forth from throat to lips like a distressed honeybee guarding its hive.

Having finished sniffing the child from head to toe, the sehlat stood over him, eyeing the infant with mild amusement, drawing his head just out of reach of the curious fingers. This only succeeded in spurring the lively mass of restless energy into motion. Spock grunted and blubbered, focused now with single-minded determination on catching hold of the sleek, brown fur covering the thick, stubby legs planted on either side of him.

She had watched with no small amount of trepidation as the wandering hands found their mark, the tiny fingers entwining in the dense fur and tugging. She winced, knowing it had to be painful, but I'Chaya bore it stoically, ignoring the wriggling being at his feet and tilting his head up, sampling an elusive scent on the wind instead.

The babe continued to worry the stout legs, trying in vain to pull himself to a seated position, babbling and cooing happily. After fifteen minutes of unwavering effort, the little fists were suddenly withdrawn from the fur, scrubbing at tired eyes instead, a huge yawn escaping from the small body.

In that instant she had started to clamber to her feet, but a hand on her wrist stayed her progress. "Wait," her husband whispered softly.

"But Sarek, Spock is tired. I need to put him down for a nap," she had remarked, her features marred by confusion.

"Observe," he had reassured her, patting the seat on the bench next to him. Amanda had slowly, hesitantly settled back down next to her husband, her eyes never leaving her only child.

Something had shifted in the sehlat, as his gaze came to rest once again on the squirming life form before him. Sinking carefully to the ground, he had encircled the child with his paws. Spock had snuggled into the dense coat, the little fingers once again finding their way into the luxuriant strands, the small eyes closing as the dark head came to rest against the sun-warmed fur.

Within minutes the boy was sound asleep, his lips twitching occasionally in a contented sucking motion. Oh so carefully, I'Chaya had drawn his precious treasure to his chest, and after one final sniff, rested his own massive head on the ground next to the sleeping infant.

She had turned unsure eyes on her husband. "Now what, Sarek? Surely you don't expect me to leave our three-month-old son out here unattended?"

"That would be most imprudent, my wife, but now that Spock has settled in for his nap, you can remain out here with him and enjoy the serenity of your garden. I shall bring you a book." And with that, her husband rose to his feet and disappeared inside.

The image morphed into another memory – a jumble of memories, really. When he was a child, Amanda had often seen her son in the garden, seated cross-legged on the ground next to the lumbering beast, talking quietly to him or with his head buried in the soft, shaggy flank. She knew in her heart Spock was pouring out his soul to his pet, telling him things he could share with no one else. And in turn, I'Chaya was providing him with comfort, with love and understanding not contingent upon expectations or personal accomplishments.

And now he was gone; had sacrificed himself to save her son; watching over him, protecting him as he had done so often in the past, but this time that loyalty had cost him his life.

She bent and kissed the massive, beloved head. "Thank you, old friend, for keeping my son safe; for making it possible for him to return to me. You have given me the most precious gift any mother can receive, and I will always be grateful."

Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she thought again of that first meeting, and wondered how she could ever have doubted him.


	22. Mirror, Mirror

A/N: This week's prompt was a visit to the mirror universe. I have always felt that mirror Spock was not quite as evil, as conniving as his counterparts, and was searching for something. Perhaps the true meaning of friendship…

**Mirror, Mirror**

I have a decision to make; one that I do not make lightly. There are too many lives at stake – those of the Halkans, my own, my captain's, and that of the other James Kirk, for I am unsure how the death of my captain would affect the life of the other. Uncertain exactly how closely these universes parallel one another, and if ending the life of my own James Kirk as his counterpart urged me to do would bring about an end to the other's life as well. And I do not wish to be the instrument of the other's death. Conversely, I do not wish to bring about the death of my captain, either. Today, I was given a window into the possible paths our futures might take; the possible path our personal relationship might take.

My James Kirk has never treated me as the other did. Our relationship is based on mutual respect fueled by suspicion, apprehension and a healthy dose of mistrust. We circle each other like two caged le'matyas, each on his guard, waiting for the other to attempt the killing blow.

Killing is not new to me; as a hybrid growing up on Vulcan, there were always those individuals who presumed I would be weaker than a full-blooded Vulcan; they were sadly mistaken. It took only a few instances of inflicting serious bodily harm on my schoolmates for them to realize the inaccuracy of that prejudiced notion. From a very young age I have always been more than capable of defending myself.

It was the death of my father by my own hand that paved the way for me to find my place in the Empire. He had groomed me to follow in his footsteps; to serve as the military attaché for the Supreme Vulcan Command, a post that gave him the power to inflict crushing punishment on those conquered worlds that had the audacity to question our authority. With innumerable military forces at his disposal, he had the capability to assert dominance over all those weaker races subsisting under the boot heel of Vulcan supremacy.

Unfortunately, those in power on Vulcan felt I was incompetent; would never have allowed me to assume that role. And I have my father to thank for that. The human concubine that gave birth to me sealed my fate. I would never have been accepted by my father's people due to the tainted blood flowing in my veins. I have never forgiven Sarek for the role he played in this, or for the serious handicap it imparted to me throughout my life. Recognizing early in life that there was no future for me on my home world, I took matters into my own hands. Presenting the Terran Emperor with my father's head assured me a place among its elite. In only a few short years, thanks to the intelligence I provided, Vulcan was conquered, defeated by its one-time enemy; relegated to a supporting role in this insane quest for galactic dominance.

Because of that, it would have been possible for me to demand any position I wished within the hierarchy of those in power, short of Emperor itself, but the idea of conquest, of murder, of the subjugation of those inferior races conquered by the Empire, held no interest for me. I spoke the truth when I told the other Kirk I had no desire to command. It has always been my penchant for the sciences that has provided me with the most satisfaction in life. My position as second-in-command of the _Enterprise _affords me the opportunity to indulge that propensity, and ensures that I am a lesser target to those ambitious individuals who wish to better themselves in this sinister purgatory we have unwittingly created. Therefore, it is only logical for me to strive to keep my James Kirk alive at all costs.

While trolling the depths of the alter McCoy's mind after he foolishly insisted on saving my life in sickbay, I was able to ascertain that this has always been the desire of my counterpart as well, but for vastly different reasons. The relationship between the other captain and his first officer is uniquely dissimilar to ours.

The mirror version of our battle-hardened doctor was weak, soft, sentimental, and flipping through the images in his mind as easily as one leafs through the pages of a paper book, I was given an unprecedented look into how that doppelganger captain and my equivalent interact with one another.

They, too share a mutual respect for one another, but one that stems from friendship, and complete and utter trust. Trust is not a word used often in our reality, for here misplaced trust frequently serves as the precursor to premature death.

Inexplicably, there is also a genuine affection there, on both sides. I saw many instances of it through McCoy's eyes as each man was willing to sacrifice his life for the other. Totally illogical. Such a sacrifice would never occur here, on either of our parts.

And yet, at present I find the idea of my captain's death strangely disconcerting, and not simply because it would thrust me into a role I do not want. The strong affection and profound ties of brotherhood between these two men dominated McCoy's memories of them. Initially, this notion was totally incomprehensible to me. But then, I saw echoes of that affection; echoes of the captivating, warm personality of that other man lurking behind the eyes of my James Kirk, and I realized then that he and I had the potential to be as they are – to be stronger together than we each are separately, and to use that power to bring about significant change; change that will have the ability to redefine our empire.

The other James Kirk told me, all that is needed for meaningful change is one man with a vision. I beg to differ; that one needs the vision is indisputable, but here, power and charisma are also necessary for the endeavor to be successful. In our universe, one man cannot achieve this on his own, but two, each watching out for the other, protecting each other, working together toward a common goal, can bring about such change.

And so my decision is this: Do I broach this subject with my captain, hoping that I can tap into the potential of the alter ego I saw? Am I blinded by my memories of the other, or does that capacity for true camaraderie, for all-encompassing trust and friendship truly exist, buried deeply somewhere inside my James Kirk as well? Failure on my part, misreading my Kirk's true nature, would surely mean my downfall.

And yet, it is a risk I am willing to take, for I wish to achieve that rapport I saw in McCoy's mind. I am ready to trust, after a lifetime spent looking over my shoulder. I can only hope that my captain is ready to do the same.

I get to my feet and head for his quarters, displaying more resolve than I have ever shown before with regard to him. A decision will be made this day, one way or another. I can only hope it is the right one…


	23. Mirror, Mirror  Sulu

A/N: This is my second foray into the mirror universe for this week's prompt. After the battle in sickbay, an unconscious mirror Sulu was left on the floor. Having no idea that that Kirk wasn't his captain, what were his thoughts when he came to?

Warning: there's some foul language in this piece - not how I usually write - but we are dealing with the mirror universe here, and it just seemed to fit, so I apologize in advance if I've offended anyone.

**Mirror, Mirror – Sulu**

He came to, alone, on the floor of sickbay. That realization sent him into a cold sweat. _Why did the captain let me live? Or Spock, or Scott for that matter? They all knew I was planning to kill him, and Spock, and as many of the rest of them as was necessary for me to seize control of this ship. It would have been in the best interest of any of them to finish me off – Uhura especially, after our little game of cat and mouse on the bridge. Surely she knows I can't allow her actions to go unpunished? She spat in the face of my authority, my very _manhood_, in front of a bridge full of subordinates._ But that did little to ease the niggling question clawing at the back of his mind_ – so why am I still alive?_

He climbed gingerly to his feet, kneading a particularly tender spot between his shoulder blades when the doors to sickbay swished open, admitting the same five who had left him here who knows how long ago. He stood frozen, as if his feet were nailed to the deck with duranium spikes, his mind racing, awaiting a killing blow that never fell.

"I want each of us thoroughly checked out," the captain barked out, brushing past the security chief as if he hadn't even seen him. He whirled on the doctor. "There's no telling what our time in that candy-assed, shit-hole of a universe did to us." As he moved to the diagnostic bed, he stopped, looking down, as debris crunched under his boot heel.

"What the hell happened in here, McCoy? This place is a pigsty, even by your crappy standards."

"Considering I was trapped in that pussy's paradise with you, I'd like to know just how the hell you expect me to know the answer to that question. You're the one with spies everywhere. Why not ask one of them?" the doctor retorted hotly, blue eyes flashing, beads of sweat glistening on his brow.

The hazel eyes darkened, and Kirk opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly the blazing glare slipped to Sulu instead. "What the fuck are you doing here?" the captain ground out through clenched teeth. "Do you know what happened here?" Spittle had collected in the corners of Kirk's mouth, hands clenched into fists at his side.

Paralyzed with fear, Sulu could only stare back mutely, his jaw working, but no sound forthcoming. Surprisingly, it was Spock who came to his rescue.

"As did I, Mr. Sulu had surmised the truth about the false captain and proceeded here with a security party to place him under arrest until we were able to ascertain the proper way to retrieve you," the Vulcan supplied calmly, his eyes sweeping over the room. "One can plainly see that a violent altercation took place here."

"Then where are the guards?" Kirk snarled back.

"Killed in the scuffle, I presume. No doubt, Mr. Sulu was allowed to live due to some misguided affection on the parts of your alter egos. This other captain was nothing like you, sir – weak, indecisive, benevolent, and compassionate – to the Halkans, to myself, and to other members of the crew who were in need of discipline in your absence."

Sulu's gaze traveled back and forth between the two men. Alter egos – just what did Spock mean by that? And why hadn't the first officer told the real Kirk the truth? Sulu had clearly come here with the intention of dispatching both his superior officers, which would allow the mantle of command to then settle around his shoulders.

He shot a surreptitious questioning look at the Vulcan, but a slight shake of the first officer's head convinced him to play along for now. And why not? He was as good as dead anyway; if this little ruse could buy him some time, he might live to scheme another day.

Sulu thumped his chest, extending his arm outward in a salute. "Captain Kirk, it is good to have you back, sir." Knowing it was a risky move, he bent to retrieve his dagger from the floor of sickbay, replacing it in his holster. If Kirk – or Spock for that matter – wanted to kill him, now was the time to do it. But no blow fell in that unguarded moment of vulnerability as he turned his back to them, reaching for his weapon where it lay at the base of the diagnostic bed. He straightened to his full height, facing his adversaries squarely.

"Once the 'other Kirk' ordered that we not destroy the Halkans and take what we wanted, it became clear to your senior officers that this sniveling excuse for a warrior wasn't the Captain Kirk we served under. As per Mr. Spock's orders (why not drag the Vulcan into this as well; if he was going down, he'd surely take the first officer with him), I had come to collect you and the rest of the original landing party and put them in the brig until we figured out what to do. They attacked us, and I was knocked unconscious in the fray, but not before the imposters managed to kill my three security guards."

The captain's irate gaze switched to the Vulcan. "Then why were you in the transporter room when we got back? Why weren't you here, helping Sulu to arrest this asshole?"

"I had falsely believed Mr. Sulu capable of managing the task on his own (ah, leave it to the Vulcan to finally throw him under the bus) and had been monitoring the increased computer activity which allowed the others to formulate a plan for them to return to their universe. Once I had correlated all the data and reached the conclusion that they were from another reality, I endeavored to contact Mr. Sulu with orders to escort the prisoners to the transporter room in order to carry out the exchange before the window of opportunity escaped us."

That was a boldfaced lie. Spock had been here, unconscious, on one of the diagnostic beds when he'd arrived with his security team. Given the state of the room when he'd gotten here, he could only assume Spock had attempted a coup as well. Sulu's eyes traveled expectantly to the Vulcan, awaiting the rest of his answer.

"When he did not respond to my pages, I logically deduced the four had escaped and made their way there. My presence there ensured that they would be in the machine at the proper time to facilitate the transfer."

Kirk chewed his lower lip, digesting that bit of information. "Seems plausible," he answered slowly, some of the earlier rage fading. "That's pretty much how things went down on the other side. Their Spock told us we had been transported to an alternate universe and forced us at gunpoint into the mechanism at the right time to be returned to our own world."

The smoldering, iridescent eyes came to rest on Sulu once again, who had been standing stiffly at attention during this entire exchange. A wicked grin twisted the captain's features. Sulu felt the blood drain from his face, unsure if it meant Kirk had bought the first officer's story, or if it meant the captain was already planning his retribution for both of them.

"Very well, get back to your post Sulu – we don't need you here any more."

Sulu didn't have to be told twice. Snapping off another hurried salute, he spun on his heel and exited the room without a backward glance. It was only when he had traveled a safe distance from sickbay that he allowed himself to breathe again. Just what was Spock up to? That the first officer had saved his ass from the captain's wrath for the time being was a given. Was the Vulcan now planning to use that information to blackmail him into participating in whatever scheme he was cooking up? At the moment, those details were unimportant. All that mattered was that, for now, he had survived, but he'd surely be on his guard in the weeks to come.


	24. Independence

A/N: This exchange takes place between two young boys. See if you can figure out who they are. ;-) (It's not hard.)

** Independence**

It was late; their parents had long since gone to bed. They had seized the opportunity and snuck outside; were now stretched out on their backs on the gentle slope of the slate roof of their house, easily accessible from their mother's garden thanks to a tall, sturdy nosan bush growing in a sheltered corner of the two-story dwelling.

A wistful voice disturbed the serenity of the silent, cool night. "Have you ever considered the possibilities elsewhere in the galaxy? How different life would be on a world where all aspects of our personality would be allowed free expression?" the older boy commented offhandedly, the mild night breeze ruffling his mop of thick, dark hair.

"I do not understand," the almost-six-year-old lying next to him answered immediately. "Our world is not oppressive; here we are free to engage in the arts, sciences, the study of the history of any Federation world we choose, to write or speak without prejudice or censure on any topic we wish. How is it that you view that as restrictive?"

"You are correct; we are free to engage in any intellectual pursuit we choose. We have the right to comment on any topic, to undertake any kind of research, and yet, as a society, we are barren, cold; unable to truly appreciate the beauty of a work of art or the stirring of the soul brought about by a haunting piece of music."

"Explain," was the resolute demand brought to the older boy on the whisper of the arid wind.

Raising himself to a seated position, the thirteen-year-old wrapped his arms around his knees, bestowing an affectionate, albeit condescending look, on his young companion.

The other boy followed suit, sitting cross-legged, hands folded neatly into his lap, looking to the older boy expectantly; waiting patiently for clarification of the other's curious observation.

"We have all the intellectual freedom one could ask for; it's the _emotional_ freedom that eludes us," came the surprising reply.

"You are incorrect; one does not need emotion to appreciate the craftsmanship behind a fine sculpture, or a masterfully constructed melody," the youngster responded simply.

"That's where you're wrong; don't you see?" The older child's brow wrinkled in consternation. "We view everything through a prism of sterility; our emotional compass is locked away, suffocated into oblivion, forbidden the exhilaration of free expression. It should not be so."

The younger boy searched for an answer, the words coming slowly. "Father says it is necessary; our ancestors gave in to their passions, and it nearly destroyed our society. Surely you can see the logic in transcending this danger, as opposed to succumbing to the complete annihilation of our race?"

The older boy's expression melted into a mirthless grin. "No, I'm sorry, but I can't. And you shouldn't, either. These emotions are inherent in all of us, but you even more so. Your mother's people do not run from their feelings but embrace them, and they have risen to become one of the most powerful and dynamic races in the Federation, so how can we then be made to believe that the expression of emotion is something to be feared?" The boy's next words came as a complete shock. "Would that I had your blood coursing through my veins."

The youngster stopped to consider that unexpected declaration. From almost the minute he'd been able to comprehend it, he had always been taught to shy away from, to master, to view with disdain the taint of his alien blood, and yet here was someone _from his own family_ espousing the view that his hybrid nature was something good; something to be celebrated.

Again, he struggled to provide a coherent answer. "We are not my mother's people. It is not logical to compare us to them. As we have been taught, all races must grow, evolve, find the life path that works best for them, or face extinction. Had our people not been able to overcome our harmful tendencies, that would unquestionably have been our fate."

"How can you be so sure?" the older boy egged him on, forcing him to think, to carefully scrutinize ideas and concepts that up till now he had taken for granted.

He tried for the direct approach. "Do you not trust the wisdom of our ancestors; believe that they saw the inevitability of their own destruction and decided on change that would prevent that from happening?"

A sigh escaped from the older boy. "It is useless; you have already been brainwashed; thoroughly indoctrinated into the mythos of total logic and non-emotion touted by our people." His voice became soft; edged with pain. "Perhaps that is enough for you. Me? I long for something more; there has to be more meaning in life that the simple advancement of intellect, or the pursuit of absolute knowledge. If these things are not tempered by feelings and emotions, they become a barren wasteland, devoid of meaning, of purpose, as I believe our people, our society, is destined to do."

His companion's eyes grew wide. "How can it be that you believe such things? This is in direct contradiction to what our father expects from us. Talk like this is certain to incur his disapproval." Mere mention of displeasing their father caused the younger boy to swallow convulsively.

A cynical laugh escaped from the older boy. "Don't worry little brother; I'm not planning to corrupt you with my wild ideas. I only know I have to select the path that is best for me, as you will be expected to do soon. And for now, I know with certainty what that will be. But it is my belief that someday, you will come to understand my words, and will finally be free to choose your life's course with your heart, not just your head."


	25. Independence: Tarsus IV

A/N: I have been debating whether or not to publish this here at this time. I've been working on a Tarsus IV story for a number of months now. Every time I think it's done, my betas beg for more, so I'm afraid it might grow to novella length or beyond. This is the second section of that piece inspired by one of the free writes (didn't post the first one). Obviously, this is a much shorter version of what will end up in the final piece, complete with background passages that won't be necessary in the final draft. A preview of things to come, so to speak. This has been on the back burner for over a month due to constraints at work, so thanks again to kes7 for getting the creative juices flowing again for that story.

**Independence**** – ****Tarsus**** IV**

**Undisclosed location  
Tarsus IV  
2246  
**

The boy lying before him on the dirt floor of the cave that had become their home in the last week coughed weakly, the phlegm rumbling in his chest, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to the portion of his forehead untouched by the devastating injury to the left side of his face. The one unmarred eye focused on him, a smile touching the corners of the boy's mouth.

"Hey Jimmy," the invalid said weakly, reaching out to grasp the other's hand.

"Hi Tommy; you look better today," he lied evenly. "Those antibiotics Dan and I got for you seem to be helping." _Too little, too late_, he thought to himself. His friend's wound had become horribly infected, the strain of bacteria obviously resistant to this particular drug. If help didn't arrive soon, Tommy was sure to be a goner. The adults had been careful not to discuss Tommy's condition within earshot of the children in the group, but at thirteen, Jimmy had learned much over the last month, and he knew the look of death when he saw it. If he were lucky, his friend might survive another day, thirty-six hours at the outside. From somewhere, he summoned up a cheery smile, pressing the hand in his warmly between his own.

"Can't say the same for you," Tommy teased. "You're nothing but a bag of bones."

It had been six weeks – give or take – since their lives had been turned upside down, an unknown fungus destroying the vast majority of the colony's food supply. But that had only been the beginning; the real nightmare started when the governor decided the only solution to the problem was to immediately exterminate half the colony's population – approximately 4,000 people – in order to give those remaining the best chance at survival.

Initially, their group of refugees had numbered seventeen. Within the first ten days, three souls had perished, and over the course of the next month, as the supply of game and untainted wild edibles had dwindled, their number dropped to eleven – two of the youngest members of their group dying of malnutrition combined with illness, and one of the four remaining adults killed in a firefight with government troops.

"Nah, I'm just svelte," he joked back, the smile still in place.

The glint of humor slipped from Tommy's face. "Seriously, how are things? The grown-ups won't tell me anything, and they won't let the little kids near me – so either I look so terrible I'll scare them half to death, or Maria's afraid they might catch whatever it is I have."

Maria was the only woman left among them, and had been a nurse in another life. It had been at her urging that he and Daniel had undertaken the risky raid on the hospital, in hopes of getting the medicine that would keep Tommy alive, and ease the hunger pangs of the younger children. She'd been very specific about what drugs she needed, and against all odds, he and Dan had managed to find them, escaping undetected.

Feeling a mask of gravity settle over his features as well, he hunkered down, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to his friend. One look into that blazing, steel-gray eye, and he knew he couldn't lie to his comrade, or sugar-coat the truth.

"Pretty rough. There's virtually no game left in the area – all the animals have either been killed and eaten by runaways like ourselves, or other carnivores, or starved to death themselves. We've been seriously skimping on our rations – the adults and us older kids, I mean – so that there'll be more for the little ones, but almost all of them are starting to get sick. Too much protein and not enough vegetables in what little there is for them to eat. Most are too sick or weak to travel now."

"Yeah." Tommy stopped abruptly, seized by a bout of coughing. "I wondered why we'd been here for so long." In the past, the group had changed locations every few days in an effort to avoid capture by the government troops combing the area striving to locate and dispatch all those persons avoiding martial law. "I'd hoped it wasn't on account of me." Fire flared in the eye again. "I don't want to put everyone else at risk."

"It wasn't for you, Tommy." Not the whole truth, but not an outright lie, either. "Dan didn't see the point of moving the whole group, what with the little kids being so weak, and the government patrols seem to have stopped. I guess they figure we're too weak from hunger to be a threat anymore, and assume we'll all die off sooner or later."

"How's Kevin?" Tommy asked, genuine concern evident in his voice.

At four years old, Kevin Riley was the youngest of their group. Despite having witnessed his entire family being put to death, the plucky toddler was possessed of an indomitable spirit, and had wormed his way into the hearts of everyone in the group. But he'd been drawn to Jimmy and Tommy especially. They'd taken the youngster under their wing, and for weeks the trio had been virtually inseparable. Jimmy found he couldn't bring himself to tell his friend that little Kevin was near death, also not expected to survive much longer.

Clearing his throat and lifting his gaze, he met the eye squarely, resolutely, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Maria came bustling into the antechamber.

"Ah, you're finally awake, sleepy-head. I brought you some water, and a little stew," she said brightly. "After you've eaten, I'll debride your wound and change your dressing," she added, "but first, here's your pain shot," she informed him, pressing a hypo to her patient's arm.

One glance at Jimmy was all it took to convince her to separate the boys. "Jimmy, would you be a dear and go check on the fire in the other room? I think you may need to go and collect more wood."

Relief flooded the adolescent, and he shot Maria a genuine look of gratitude before returning his gaze to his friend. "I'll be back in a little while; we'll talk more then, I promise." Giving Tommy's shoulder a reassuring squeeze he climbed to his feet.

_It's not fair,_ he thought bitterly as he headed for the other room, anger making his face hot as an unwanted pressure began building behind his eyes. _None of us should have to have died, especially not like this. Kodos should have found another way._ Once in the other room, he squatted next to Kevin's form, the toddler curled up against the wall, sleeping as well. He tousled the youngster's hair before heading for the mouth of the cave.

Brushing the tears from his eyes, he nearly ran headlong into Daniel. "Whoa. Slow down there, Chief," their leader admonished gently, clasping the boy's shoulders. "Where're you off to in such a hurry?"

Jimmy shrugged himself free of the comforting grip, refusing to meet Daniel's eyes. Struggling to get himself under control, he provided a curt answer. "Maria asked me to collect some more firewood," he replied in as steady a voice as he could muster.

"Mind if I tag along?" Daniel asked quietly, falling into step beside the visibly distraught teen.

"Suit yourself," Jimmy answered, the reply carrying more of a sting than he had intended.

Without another word, the two headed into the woods.

"Wanna talk about it?" Daniel asked gently after several minutes of silence, marred only by the snapping of twigs.

"There's nothing to talk about," came the sharp reply. "Six of us are already dead, two more are soon to follow, and each and every one of us lost someone – or in some cases more than one person – who was special to us. It should never have happened. What kind of monster could have decided on this course of action?" Jimmy was angrily tugging dead branches off a tree.

"C'mere, that can wait. Come on over here and sit with me." Daniel had seated himself on a fallen log. Dropping the pile of sticks in his arms and taking a deep, centering breath, Jimmy plopped down beside the older man.

"Yes, he's a monster," Daniel began. "Yes, this should never have happened to any of us, but it did, and we can't change that. All we can do is move forward; do whatever we can to survive until help arrives."

"I'm starting to wonder if it ever will." The dejection evident in the words was visible on the boy's face as well.

"I know things seem bleak now, but hang in there. It's been about six weeks, and I can't believe it will take much longer for the relief ships to get here."

"I know. I'm sorry, Dan. I'm just worried about Tommy and Kevin. Neither one has much longer—" The teen stopped talking abruptly, the tears threatening to spill forth.

Daniel wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders, tugging him close for a moment. "Trust me, I know what you're going through – we're all going through it – but we can't lose hope; it's all we have left." A pause as he let the words sink in. "Seems to me I've heard that somewhere before. Any idea where?" There was a mischievous twinkle in Daniel's eyes.

In spite of himself, Jimmy found himself grinning. He opened his mouth to respond when suddenly, a sound drifted to them through the dense foliage. "Dan, do you hear that?" Jimmy asked, jumping to his feet, his eyes drawn skyward as a loud hum filled the air.

"Yeah. Sounds like a hovercraft." Daniel had gotten to his feet as well. "But there weren't any planetside at the time of the crisis."

The two began heading for a clearing a hundred meters in the distance. As they loped through the forest, new sounds met their ears.

"_Attention survivors: Please report to the main settlement immediately. Rescue operations are currently underway. We have brought food and medical supplies, and are in the process of evacuating all remaining colonists to a Federation starbase. If you or members of your party are too weak to travel, signal us as to your location and we'll come to you. Ground crews are currently in the area and will be able to render assistance."_

Upon hearing the announcement, Jimmy exchanged glances with Daniel and began to run full tilt for the clearing. It was over; no more of his friends would die needlessly. They were finally free of this nightmare.


	26. Small Universe Syndrome

A/N: The prompt for this week entailed bringing together characters from the different iterations of Trek. Since I'm strictly a TOS girl, this was the best I could come up with. This does tie in ever-so-slightly with my story 'Our Brother's Keepers.'

Warning: Contains spoilers for 'Star Trek: Generations.'

**Small Universe Syndrome**

The sounds and smells accosting him in the deepening twilight were unfamiliar. Songs of crickets, the trilling buzz of cicadas and the discordant patter of other nocturnal insects and animals carried for great distances over the rolling plains, as did the intermittent flashes of lightning bugs and the rustle of the wind through cornstalks and fields thick with wavering seas of long fodder grasses.

The smell of the rich, fertile soil, commingled with the sharp tang of alfalfa, the sweet perfume of clover, the strong, heady scent of freshly-mowed grass and the acrid sting of manure all vied for dominance, each launching a separate assault on his senses.

The evening breeze caressed his skin, making him shiver slightly. He was used to cool night air; it was commonplace on his world, but this carried with it a measure of humidity not found in the arid environment of his birth, raising goose bumps on all areas of exposed skin. But his discomfort was not merely physical.

Seating himself on the soft grass, kept cool thanks to the shade provided by a towering oak tree and already damp with evening dew, his eyes came to rest on his handiwork: a mound of freshly-tilled earth.

His vision clouded over as the events of one week ago took shape again in his memory.

The chime of the doorbell late that night had been unexpected, but not nearly as much so as the individual standing on the other side. Their first meeting had been strained, and if the uneasiness written on the man's face was any indication, this one would be just as bad, if not worse.

"Captain Picard, please come in," he intoned, stepping aside to let the current captain of the _Enterprise_ pass. He had been informed of the _Enterprise-D_'s destruction on Veridian III, but hadn't anticipated a personal visit to recount the circumstances.

Picard stepped over the threshold, taking a steadying breath and meeting his eyes squarely.

"May I inquire as to the nature of your visit? I have already been informed by Starfleet of the _Enterprise-D_'s fate."

"I fear it's more complicated than that, Ambassador. Perhaps we should sit down."

Unruffled for the moment, he'd gestured to the couch in the living room.

"I haven't even shared this information with Starfleet Command yet. I felt I owed you, and him, that much at least," Picard began without preamble, once the two of them had settled themselves comfortably.

"To whom are you referring, sir?" he had asked, unable to totally mask his confusion.

Picard had expelled the air from his lungs in a protracted sigh. "I bring you news of Captain Kirk," he said slowly.

He'd felt his heart skip a beat, but recovered his poise quickly. "I do not understand. Captain Kirk was lost on the _Enterprise-B_'s maiden voyage, seventy-eight years ago."

"I'm afraid that's not entirely correct. It's interesting that you chose the word 'lost,' for while the captain's disappearance at that time is indisputable, he was not killed on that mission."

"Explain," he had heard himself ask, his earlier façade of calm faltering slightly.

"It was known then that the ship encountered a mysterious energy ribbon. What was not fully understood at the time was that this was, in fact, a link to the Nexus."

"Nexus?"

"I was there, and I'm not entirely sure I understand it myself, but the Nexus is a place where time does not exist; where one's past or future is not set, but can be made into whatever you wish."

"And while there you wished to come face to face with James Kirk?"

"Not exactly." Picard shifted uncomfortably before continuing. "Guinan told me he was there, too – she had actually been trapped in the Nexus and was rescued during the _Enterprise-B_'s encounter with the energy ribbon." The Frenchman stopped suddenly. "The details are unimportant; the main thing is that Kirk was alive and well and had been living in the Nexus for the last seventy-eight years."

Picard's use of the past tense had not been lost on him. Nevertheless, he had been compelled to ask the next question. "You are here. Logically, this indicates that you found a way to escape. Are you proposing that it is possible for Captain Kirk to be recovered as well?"

"I'm afraid that's no longer an option; Captain Kirk is dead – lost on Veridian III where he had accompanied me in an effort to thwart the plans of Dr. Soran. The doctor was among the survivors of the El-Aurian population saved from the energy ribbon by the _Enterprise-B_. Over the years since his rescue, he had been searching for the location of the energy ribbon. He wished to return to the Nexus, and planned to do so by destroying the sun in the Veridian system, shifting the ribbon's course directly over Veridian III and allowing him to reenter the Nexus at that time. Blowing up the sun would have obliterated the entire Veridian system, and would have caused the deaths of countless millions on Veridian IV. At my urging, Captain Kirk left the Nexus and returned with me to Veridian III. He helped me to prevent this from happening, but unfortunately, it cost him his life in the process."

A moment of silence had passed as he'd absorbed that bit of information. "I see." It was the only response he'd been able to muster.

"Actually, I'm not sure you do. I'm not here to reopen old wounds, but to let you know that I personally buried Kirk on Veridian III. I wanted to tell you so that, should you wish it, you can retrieve his body and bring him home."

He had blinked, a pain that went well beyond loss or grief twisting his insides. Many years ago, he and McCoy had vowed to protect James Kirk from himself at all costs. And he had failed, not once, but twice – first by not being with Jim on the _Enterprise-B_, allowing him to be trapped in an alternate reality, and again when he had perished on Veridian III.

His eyes slowly focused on his surroundings once again. His gaze traveled over some of the monuments spread out before him: George Samuel Kirk, Sr., born 2198, died 2266. Winona Kirk, born 2202, died 2285. George Samuel Kirk, Jr., born 2229, died 2267. Aurelan Kirk, born 2231, died 2267. His eyes skimmed over the remaining tombstones; this small family plot on the Kirk homestead housed several generations of his former captain's family. At last they settled on the fresh mound of dark, Iowan soil. No marker was present, for one already existed for a grave that contained no body, located in a place of honor on the grounds of Starfleet Academy.

_And I shall not place one here,_ he thought resolutely. _I do not wish for your home to become a mecca for all those seeking to pay homage to you; that can be done at the location designated as your final resting place seventy-eight years ago. It is my wish that you remain here, among your family. In life, you often lamented the fact that your devotion to duty kept you from them. 'Men like us don't have families,' you once said. _

"That shall no longer be the case. This marks the last thing I can do for you my old friend; I did not wish for you to be alone for all eternity."


	27. If I Could Do It Over: 1

A/N: A working knowledge of the TOS episode 'All Our Yesterdays' will add significant meaning to this piece.

**If I Could Do It Over Again: All Our Yesterdays  
**

"If only I could do it over again…" The words end in a sob, echoing throughout the now-empty cavern, which only a short time ago had been filled with more life than I could have ever imagined.

I try to convince myself it didn't really happen; was just a figment of my over-active imagination; a side effect of my loneliness manifesting itself in a hallucination, but signs of them, of _him_, are everywhere: a half-eaten plate of food, items knocked to the floor during their short-lived yet intense scuffle, and the animal skins on my bed, still rumpled from our recent lovemaking.

Long ago, I had resigned myself to a life of loneliness, but that all changed in the blink of an eye. Upon seeing them, I was convinced that madness had finally overwhelmed me, but he assured me that was not the case. And now they are gone; _he_ is gone, and the silence, the _emptiness_, is a thousand times worse than it was before.

Brushing the tears from my cheeks, I collapse onto the thick pile of skins, where the scent of him still lingers. I find myself lost in the memory of the feel of him, the _taste_ of him. Long ago, I'd resigned myself to the fact that being held securely in a pair of strong arms, being made to feel safe; that nothing could hurt me, was a pleasure I'd never experience again. That sharing hopes and dreams with the one who would help me realize them; with someone I loved more than my own life, was no longer in the realm of possibility for me.

Now that I have experienced it once more, can I go on living as before? Can I continue to call this solitary existence _living_? If I could do it over again, I would have at least tried to return with him. Who knows? Maybe the idea that I had been altered somehow by the Atavachron was a lie conjured up by Zor Kahn to keep me from trying to escape, or to prevent any of my family from trying to rescue me. His companion said he was a doctor. Perhaps he would have been able to prevent my death.

And yet, even had I died the instant I returned, it would have been preferable to spending the next half-century alone again. The tears are falling steadily now and I am powerless to stop them.

_If only I could do it over again…_

oooOOOooo

"If only I could do it over again…"

I am in my cabin; the warm temperature and subdued red lighting usually provide the ideal atmosphere for meditation, but tonight that semblance of peace, of serenity, eludes me. These words keep disturbing my thoughts, crowding out the possibility of successfully completing the rituals that have sustained me since childhood.

I keep hearing the whistling of the wind; feel the prick of cold upon my skin, and unerringly, my mind keeps returning to the events of today, to _her_; the feel of her, the _taste_ of her. At the time, I hadn't realized, or been able to stop, the depth of emotions that had overwhelmed me: anger, lust, elation, ecstasy, jealousy, unimaginable sadness.

It had taken McCoy's stubborn petulance, his innate sense of what was right, his willingness to challenge any and all decisions I make, to force me see a semblance of reason. It was only due to his determination that we eventually learned the truth: We had to return to the present; our bodies had not been prepared by Mister Atoz before we left. Without the proper modifications, we would not have survived for long in that place. Given the circumstances, I could not allow the doctor to be trapped there against his will.

But even then, my logic had failed me, for I doubted the veracity of that statement. My objective had been to assist McCoy in finding the portal, send him through, and remain in Sarpeidon's past with her. But since we had initially passed through this doorway through time together, the doctor had been unable to return without me.

Yet I was prepared for even that contingency; it had been my intention to leap through and return McCoy to the present. Once he was back within the walls of the library, I had resolved to leap through again, choosing to remain with her, before either of them could stop me. All that changed the moment I saw Jim's face; the profound relief etched there when he realized that we were safe; that _I_ was safe; the feel of his gentle hand on my shoulder, his other resting securely on McCoy's. Through that subtle contact, I could sense that Jim was acting as the bridge, completing the psychic link between the three of us; for that split second, Jim became the manifestation of the cosmic glue which binds us, one to the other. I knew in that instant that, despite the circumstances, I would choose them over her.

But I also learned something about myself in that instant. That singular event taught me without question what it means to humans when they say they are suffering from a broken heart. For me, it did not matter; my heart would have been shattered no matter the path I had chosen. In either case, I would have had to abandon something of great importance to me.

I condemned her to a life of loneliness; a woman for whom I admittedly had feelings. Surely that was a selfish choice on my part. I am certain now that Jim and McCoy would have been able to continue without me. Such certainty does not exist where she is concerned. Jim and McCoy had each other, would have been able to forge other relationships that would have sustained them.

For her, that was not an option.

I did not wish to hurt any of them, but sadly, doing so was an unavoidable reality. Was it selfish of me to desert her in such an abrupt and callous manner?

Had it been different, had she asked me to stay, had I been able to send McCoy through without me, or had she been able to return with us, would my choice have been the same? Kaiidth. Thoughts such as these are counterproductive. The decision has been made, and I cannot alter it now, for her planet no longer exists, destroyed by the supernova that enveloped Sarpeidon's sun, extinguishing all life on its surrounding worlds.

I cannot help but wonder though, if she ever thought of me during the remaining years of her exile; what her true feelings were for me? If she was aware that, at that time, in that place, I did love her, with all the abandon and recklessness my uncensored self was able to muster; beyond all the logic and reason inherent to my species.

If given the option to do it over again, would I have made the same choice?


	28. If I Could Do It Over: 2

A/N: A short, wee piece, written for Robert. This particular character has figured into several of his recent free write entries. ;-)

**If I Could Do It Over Again: Harry Mudd**

"If only I could do it over again," he muttered under his breath, running at breakneck speed (which was not very fast for a man of his girth) down the corridor, the echo of a thousand pursuing feet heavy in his ears.

_How could I have been so _stupid? He lamented silently. _I should have told Norman to avoid Kirk's ship like the plague. Any starship would have served my purpose. I should have known better than to cross wits with him and that pointy-eared freak of a first officer of his._

He switched direction, rushing into a dark side corridor and flattening himself against the wall. The unruly horde bustled by, screeches of, "Harcourt Fenton Mudd, come back here this instant!," its ubiquitous battle cry, ringing throughout his head, slicing through him as if someone were poking razor-sharp shards of glass into his temples. After what seemed an unbearable amount of time had passed, the din of voices, and the stomp of slippered feet, faded into the background.

He took a moment to catch his breath – and he was breathing quite heavily – dragging a sleeve across his sweat-soaked brow. He and physical activity of any kind had not been on speaking terms for a number of years now.

_Perhaps I shouldn't have made Stella at all._ He considered that notion for a moment, and then summarily dismissed it. _It was such a pleasure to finally be able to have the last word; to win every argument. _He sighed gleefully at the memory. _In recent weeks, it was the only thing that kept me sane in this infernal place. No,_ he decided,_ my mistake was showing Stella to Kirk at all. Damn McCoy for asking about the darkened alcove where I kept her, and damn me for being foolish enough to reveal her to them. That's where I went wrong. If Kirk never knew she existed, he wouldn't have been able to make five hundred of her, just to torment me._ He was certain he saw the Vulcan's handiwork, or perhaps even that insufferable Mister Scott as well, in that particular feat of engineering.

Suddenly, sharp, shrewish voices began to filter back from the distance. The army of Stellas was on to him! He turned and fled, again cursing his lack of foresight.

_If only I could do it all over again, I would've included a fail-safe in her programming. A panic phrase that when spoken, would cause her to self-destruct on the spot, perhaps something along the lines of "you're a horrid bitch, Stella."_ Unfortunately, this line of thinking was brought to a halt immediately as a set of bony fingers closed around his collar…


	29. Alien of the Week

A/N: An exploration/celebration of one of the many alien species featured in the Trekiverse.

**Alien of the Week**

It's dark in here; but warm, and comforting, and I'm all alone. I can't remember the last time I had a space all to myself. I find myself reveling in the solitude, despite the fact that the area is cramped, a bit musty, and very confining.

I can hear the murmur of voices, when suddenly, light bursts in from above, and I am tugged from my cocoon of fabric by pudgy fingers. A few seconds pass, and I am then deposited into another hand; soft, shapely, the fingers lithe and dexterous. She smells nice; her fingers gently caress me, and I can't help but respond, as a soft trilling sound is coaxed from my throat. I am rewarded by the gentle ripple of her laughter – a soothing, musical sound – and a flash of perfect, white teeth.

Soon another set of fingers starts stroking me as well. I'm in heaven, beside myself with joy. In the midst of all this bliss, the humans go back to their discussion, and I am forgotten momentarily, set gingerly on the tabletop, where I start to wander about on my own. Unerringly, I find the small, golden cylinder left carelessly in a corner against the wall. Whatever is in there smells delicious, and I'm so hungry. I knock it over and begin devouring the contents. Yummy! It's been ages since I was able to eat my fill undisturbed. I munch through half of the pile before the coarse, sweaty hand scoops me up again. "Put me down," I squeak in protest. "I wasn't done yet!"

He gives me back to _her_, and I am content once again as she takes me with her, leaving the sights and smells of this place behind us.

oooOOOooo

It's dark again, but no matter; I am comfortable and safe, bedded down on a soft nest of blankets in her quarters. I'm sure I'm going to like it here. It's airy, light – so unlike the close, dank hold in which I used to live. And the space! I'm not packed cheek by jowl with others of my kind. The lebensraum is almost as refreshing as the constant supply of delicious chow. I remember what she said about that: "Are you still hungry?"

"Yes," I warbled in return, my mouth stuffed.

The music of her laughter filled the air again. "I've never seen anything so small eat so much," she said, spilling another load of scrumptious food into my bowl.

I stretch languorously, cooing with contentment. My belly is full for the first time in a long time; so full I feel as if I'll burst, but it's a good feeling. I'm so tired; I'll just rest for a bit…

oooOOOooo

I awake to the muted sound of trilling. It can't be! Last night I was all alone. Where did these other ten creatures come from? And they've eaten all the food she set out for me. Where is my savior? I can hear muffled singing coming from the other room. Good. She's still here, and when she discovers what has happened, she'll take care of things for me; make sure we all have enough to eat.

I hear a door swish open, followed by a puff of steam. Soft footfalls approach. "And how are we this morning?" she starts to ask, but her words are cut off by a gasp of surprise. "What have we here?" she asks, plucking me gently from the midst of the writhing, cooing mass. "Babies? You had babies overnight? I guess that means I'll have to change your name from Thomas to Thomasina." She sighs quietly. "Aren't they precious," she says in her singsong voice, patting each one affectionately in turn. "But I can't keep all of them," she declares, and my heart skips a beat. What will she do with them? As much as I have been enjoying my freedom of the last eighteen hours, they are still my children. I don't want to see them harmed. But she is kind, benevolent; I'm sure she'll come up with a sensible solution.

oooOOOooo

We are on the bridge now. I am resting atop her station. She is engrossed in her duties, and my heart is bursting with love. I knew I could count on her. She took me and my new family to somewhere called 'The Rec Room.' There were lots of other nice people there, and each of my children was adopted by someone who was sensitive, and thoughtful; someone who would treat them with kindness and love. Surely they have each found a benefactor as wonderful as mine. I have nothing to fear – the young ones will be well looked-after. I have decided that I like these strange creatures called humans.

I purr loudly at her, positively thrilled with the course my life has taken, as I start moving down the console toward her. I am rewarded with a warm smile as she reaches out to pat my fur gently. "I love you, too Thomasina," she tells me.

oooOOOooo

I hate it here – it's awful. It smells, worse than it ever did before, and I'm being crushed underneath thousands of furry bodies, all of which seem to be engaged in one giant hiss. I liked it so much better on the other ship. It's all _his_ fault – the one they call 'Captain.' How can _I_ be to blame? After all, he's the one who sat on _me_. He should have looked first before plopping that big, black tukhus down on me. I couldn't help but shriek in protest. He was so heavy. What was I supposed to do? I was just trying to find some space to have my next litter.

He was instantly angry, not full of love and affection for us like the other humans. He started gathering armfuls of my children's children off the consoles, finally thrusting us roughly into the arms of my petite rescuer. "Get these things off the bridge," he admonished her. He left in a huff, and a flurry of activity began, first in that confined space, and then all over the ship. It took hours, but my entire family was collected from every last nook and cranny, thrown into some large machine, and the next thing you know we wound up here.

I hate him. I'm sure he's the reason we're here now, with these horrible humanoids. Even that one with the pointy ears was nice to us in the Rec Room, holding and stroking one of my children gently, affectionately, but _Captain_ was just indifferent; didn't pet a single one of us. He always sounded gruff, short, irritated. It's my guess that a little fuzzy love would have done him a world of good.

Up till now, I'd never met a humanoid I didn't like, but these swarthy, sweaty, testy creatures – the humans call them Klingons, I think – are beyond the pale. They're insufferable; not a redeeming quality among them. They despise us as much as we despise them. I'd even prefer to be back on Cyrano Jones' ship. Anything is better than this cold, bleak purgatory where we are reviled and treated with complete and utter disdain. Besides, I'm so _hungry_…


	30. It Had to be You

A/N: My entry from last week was full of sweet, fluffy goodness. Be warned, this is a complete 180 from that…

**It Had to be You**

_It had to be you_ he thought grimly, as the fist connected once again with his nose, this time followed by a sickening crunch. He could feel the blood dripping down his face, but couldn't spare a moment to think about that. He had to keep moving, one arm pressed protectively to his midsection. One more hit there and one of his broken ribs was sure to puncture a lung.

_I knew we hadn't seen the last of one another, but I certainly hadn't expected our next confrontation to be so soon. How did you manage it? We were beaming up to our ship, and materialized on yours instead. How could the Organians have let that happen?_ These thoughts were interrupted as he ducked just in time to avoid another blow to the head, using the downward momentum to butt his opponent in the solar plexus before dancing out of reach. This knocked the tall alien off balance, but only just. Recovering quickly, the pale-robed figure took several menacing steps toward him, closing the distance between them once again. _And where the hell did he come from? I was sure we destroyed him on Exo III._

"I told you it would be glorious. I also told you I'd dissect your friend and find out how he was able to defeat the mindsifter." Kirk's eyes were instantly drawn to a viewscreen that had suddenly flared to life. It showed the unconscious form of Spock stretched out on a metal table, the lighting harsh and austere, masked, hooded figures hovering over him, blades glistening in their hands.

The pale, hulking mass to his right snapped his attention away from the disturbing image as he rolled to avoid a lunge aimed at his torso. He bit his lips to stifle the groan that threatened to escape from the back of his throat as the sharp ends of his ribs grated against one another. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Landing on his feet, chest heaving, he spared a glance laced with venom at his captor.

"You can stop it, Captain. Just tell me what I want to know." He felt the silky voice slither along his spine. "Where is the fleet?"

"Go to hell," he ground out harshly.

A blood-curdling sneer split the other's face, causing the ends of the long, thin mustache to ripple and sway. "Have it your way, Captain. Continue to refuse me, and you'll both die – he, under the knife; and you, after I have let Ruk finish working you over, under the crushing force of our mind ripper. Your broken body will be matched by an equally shredded mind. Either way, I promise you, before this is over you will long for death. The Organians will not save you this time."

"They won't save you, either. And this time, I'll kill you, I swear."

A malevolent laugh echoed throughout the chamber. "And just how do you propose to do that? You'll have to get past my very large friend here first, before you can get to me. I don't see how that's possible for you. Ruk, protect," his nemesis instructed calmly.

He dodged again, backpedaling, but he was no match for the tall android's longer stride. He felt the sinewy arms close inexorably around his middle, the pain explosive, everything fading to black, the breath for a scream squeezed from him before it could manifest. He felt himself lifted high into the air, followed by the stomach-churning sensation of falling as he was tossed across the room like a rag doll.

He landed heavily on his injured side, instantly deflating lungs he strove mightily to fill, and the room disappeared in a shower of white sparks. Struggling to his feet, his vision cleared slowly. His eyes were glued to the monitor as one of the shadowy figures approached Spock, the blade raised high over its head.

"NO!" he called out, as the knife was plunged downward with terrifying speed.

His eyes snapped open. He was bathed in sweat, his breath coming in short, heaving gasps. Feeling a stricture around his torso, he realized he was hopelessly tangled in the sheet.

"Lights, thirty percent," he choked out, raising himself to a seated position. The walls of his quarters materialized around him, and he drew a shaky hand across his face, as if to wipe away all traces of the terrifying images of moments ago.

He was on his ship. Bits and pieces of the events of the day gradually blotted out those ghostly apparitions from his nightmare. His sheer frustration with the Organians; his and Spock's attempts to show them that they could strike back against their oppressors; his verbal showdown with Kor, and his complete and utter awe, commingled with a twinge of shame, as the Organians brought a decisive halt to all hostilities between their two diametrically opposed factions; hostilities which he certainly didn't want but had argued vehemently for the right in which to engage nevertheless.

His thoughts drifted to Spock. On the planet, he had been beside himself, helpless to protect his first from the rigors of the Klingon torture device. As Spock had been led away, he cursed the Organians for their spinelessness, and himself for allowing Spock to be put in this position. When the two of them had beamed down, they'd known the odds were against their safe return, but he'd expected them to go down fighting. It had made it all the more senseless to think that the Vulcan would forfeit his life in such a useless manner. His relief at seeing Spock emerge virtually unscathed from the Klingon machine had been all-encompassing.

The insidious dream had tapped into that fear, that unease and insecurity he still felt occasionally when crewmen died under his command; in those quiet moments when he questioned decisions he had made, actions he had pursued which while saving many, had caused the deaths of a select few.

He remembered his whispered confession to McCoy during their standoff with the Romulan Bird of Prey: "And Bones, what if I'm _wrong_?" And McCoy had given him an answer. Not one laced with platitudes and excuses, but one that made him realize he could not second-guess the choices and decisions he had made. Not and hope to come through the rigors of command with his conscience intact.

He sighed heavily, knowing these self-doubts came with the territory. He needed to focus on what was, not what might have been. An image formed in his mind of Spock materializing on the transporter platform next to him, whole and undamaged. For now, it would have to do.

He lay back down, closing his eyes resolutely. _I don't have to let you win, you son of a bitch,_ he thought grimly. _In the end, everything turned out for the best; we did the right thing, to the best of our ability. I stand by my decisions, and that's all that matters_.


	31. Letters from Home

A/N: This week's prompt was 'Letters from Home,' which inspired this piece, written for Mistral. He left a review for my story 'See the Cosmos' last week, asking for more about the main character. A serious departure from my usual Kirk & Spock & McCoy stuff, this short centers on two OCs from that story.

**Letters from Home**

He flopped down on his Starfleet issue cot, exhausted and wrung out from the rigors of the day. Today had been a hump day – you either got over the hump and moved forward with your class, or you washed out. It hadn't been an issue for him – Jerry was young and fit, more so than most of the other cadets, and the base obstacle course had never given him any trouble.

They'd lost five recruits today; young men and women who just couldn't cut the demanding physical pressures of Starfleet OCS. Four he'd only known in passing, but Manfred had been a member of his squad. At the squad leader's urging, he'd taken the young German under his wing, but no amount of coaching or practice could make up for what the young man had lacked in physical attributes. He just hoped Squad Leader Utechin would see it that way, or else the man could make his life hell for the next few weeks. Having a candidate wash out was a black mark for the entire squad – they were expected to rally around their weakest members and help them to succeed at all costs.

Jerry was roused out of these dark thoughts by a booming voice: "Mail call!" All the candidates straightened on their bunks, with the exception of Jerry. There was no one to write to him – his dad was busy with his new wife and child; his mother was drunk out of her mind most of the time, and his few friends from high school had basically disowned him when they found out he was going to 'fleet OCS.

He rolled onto his back, eyes closed, head pillowed on his hands, as he listened to the chaos around him. "Andersen. Byich. Cruz. Hancock." The words were accompanied by the sound of tapes whizzing through the air, expertly caught by outstretched hands. He tuned out the monotonous droning until he was startled to hear his own name, accompanied by the thwack of something landing on his chest. "Lenz." The room quieted for a moment. "Well, I guess even a blind squirrel finds a nut now and then," a voice from three bunks down remarked, to a chorus of snorts and snickers. Jerry felt himself go red.

"Aw, never mind Weinberg, Jer – you know how he is," this from Latimer, on the bunk next to his. Latimer was his closest friend here; even though the blond youth's specialty was command and not security like Jerry's, the two had struck up an unconventional friendship. "Who's it from?" Latimer prodded.

Jerry examined the address etched into the brightly-colored plastic cassette. "It's from Kyle!" Jerry couldn't contain his enthusiasm, wide brown eyes accompanied by a silly grin meeting Latimer's watery blue ones. Kyle had been Jerry's best friend in high school, and his staunchest and most vocal critic of Jerry entering the service. They hadn't parted under the best of terms, and frankly Jerry has resigned himself to the fact that they were no longer on speaking terms.

"That's great, Jer," Latimer said, clapping his friend's shoulder with genuine affection. "See? I told you he'd come around. You were worried over nothing."

"Yeah, maybe," Jerry admitted, twirling the bright object nervously between his fingers. "But what if this is his way of telling me to piss off once and for all?"

"Good God, man! I've never seen such a pessimist. Must be a result of your specialty," Latimer teased with a wink. "Those of us in the Command Track are taught to always look on the bright side. Besides, you'll never know until you play it." Jerry looked uncertain. "Go on, man," Latimer urged, "there's no point in sitting here stewing about it."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," the young recruit admitted, climbing to his feet, the tape clutched tightly in his hand as he headed for the computer lab.

oooOOOooo

Jerry slipped into a chair at an empty cubicle in the lab, nervously fingering the hard plastic cassette before swallowing resolutely and pushing it into the slot at the base of the viewer with sweaty palms.

Instantly, Kyle's face filled the screen. Idly, Jerry thought that his friend looked older, leaner, more mature and responsible, despite the fact that he'd seen him only a few months ago.

"Hi Jer," his friend began nervously, eyes roaming between the hands clasped on the desk in front of him and the video pickup. "Long time, no speak, huh?" Kyle paused, a deep breath escaping through tightly-compressed lips. "My fault, I guess. I know you guys don't have a lotta free time. Thanks for sending me the tape letting me know you made it to your base okay. Despite the fact that I'm still really pissed at you for joining up, you're still my best bud and all." Kyle stopped, coloring faintly, a shy grin creeping over his features.

Jerry felt his lips twist into an answering smile.

Kyle started once again. "I guess I was just ticked off; maybe jealous in a way, because it felt like you were leaving me behind. While I'm stuck here with no future other than learning the family business, you're off doing exciting things, traveling, seeing the cosmos." He halted again, his expression becoming serious. "Just promise me something, Jer – keep your head down, will ya? Things tend not to go so well for the guys dressed in red who make planetfall, know what I mean? I know how you are – way too protective of those people you feel responsible for – like your mom. Just remember, no senior officer's ass is worth your life."

With that, Kyle segued into a safer, less emotionally-charged topic. "I've been keeping an eye on your mom for you—" Jerry's thoughts began to drift. His mom had been the biggest unknown with regard to his leaving. Jerry was her only child, and she hadn't taken it well when her husband had run off with a woman ten years her junior when Jerry was just four. She'd tried to hold it together, but found solace at the bottom of a vodka bottle, rather than in being involved in her son's life. Over the years they'd managed to muddle through somehow, and Jerry loved her, despite her at times seeming indifference to him. He knew, even as a small child, that she was all he had in this world, and that she loved him in her own strange, twisted way.

Kyle's voice began to filter back in "—and I know she misses you. She tells all the neighbors how proud she is of you – her son, who's gonna be an officer in Starfleet." Kyle shrugged his shoulders, his gaze intensifying once again. "She's not the only one, Jer. At least you're out doing something, making something of yourself. It's inspired me to take some classes at the local community college. Maybe once I get a few under my belt I can move out of the house, earn a scholarship and follow my dreams, too. Who knows, maybe one day we'll meet up in the vastness of space somewhere. You know I'm good with my hands, and have a knack for fixing things. I've already got the know-how; maybe if I get a degree I can work on repairing those fancy ships that schlep you all over the galaxy – I don't want to be stuck here in my family's garage patching up flitters for the rest of my life."

A faraway look touched Kyle's face. "So don't be a stranger, hear? I promise to keep in touch, too." His friend was interrupted by a deep voice in the background: "Kyle? Where the hell are you? Break time's over, boy and we have a lotta work left to do. Get your ass in here." Kyle's face darkened briefly, before a look of affection settled over his features. "You heard the old man – gotta go. Write soon, okay?" And with that, the screen went dark.

Jerry leaned back in his chair, his breath struggling to escape the sudden stricture in his throat. Turned out it was a good day after all.

Finis

A/N: To learn more about Jerry and Kyle, check out my story 'See the Cosmos.'


	32. Temptation

A/N: The prompt this week was 'Temptation.' Oh, the hoops I had to jump through to come up with something that wasn't NC-17. ;-)

**Temptation**

God, he _really _wanted it. But he knew it was taboo, verboten on so many levels. His eyes quickly scanned the room. It was fairly empty, given the late hour, and no one was paying any attention to him. There had been a few nods and words of acknowledgement when he'd come in, yet now he was all but invisible.

He cast another furtive look at his surroundings, assessing the few crewmembers there at the moment: Ensign Knowles from engineering, a relatively new recruit, single-mindedly devouring everything on the tray before her. Not likely to rat him out. Yeoman Kim, assigned to the Quartermaster's staff – also unlikely to have a working relationship with the doctor. Lieutenants Sandhu and De la Rosa, seated across a table from each other. Staring at one another like two lovesick tasartis, a neutron explosion would probably be insufficient to distract them at the moment.

The few others present were all lower decks personnel from security, here for their weekly poker game. All thoroughly engrossed in their own personal pursuits, it seemed no one was giving him a second thought. He could do it. No one would know. _He'd_ never find out. He smacked his lips appreciatively, thinking how much easier it would make wading through the pile of paperwork waiting for him on his desk when he got back to his cabin.

Mind made up, he climbed to his feet, thumbing through the pile of chips in his hand, choosing one, and popping it quickly into the slot on the wall. Momentarily, the door slid open, revealing his prize: It was long, thin, and oh-so flaky, innumerable wafer-thin layers clearly visible; dark, rich brown glaze, slathered thickly on the top, drizzling down the sides; creamy pale yellow filling oozing out the ends.

Grabbing a napkin, he deftly wrapped up the forbidden treat, effectively hiding it from prying eyes before surreptitiously removing it from the recessed alcove in the wall. A self-satisfied smirk stole over his features as he headed for the door, quite pleased with himself.

The shrill whistle of the shipwide intercom stopped him in his tracks.

"_McCoy to Captain."_

He started guiltily, his gaze sweeping the room once again, but no eyes met his. However, it seemed the inattentiveness was not due to a sense of guilt, but rather disinterest. No one here appeared to be the least bit concerned with what he was doing. It _can't be_ he chided himself; _it must be a coincidence._

He stepped confidently to the panel, thumbing the switch.

"Kirk here; what's up, Bones?"

"_Funny, I was gonna ask you the same thing,"_ the disembodied voice drawled. _"Something you wanna fess up to, Jim?"_

"And just what's _that_ supposed to mean, Doctor?" he asked in a harsh whisper, but uncharacteristically the tone came off more contrite than annoyed.

"_Dunno. Just had a hunch that maybe you were falling off the wagon. And you surely wouldn't want to do that, right? Not with your weekly weigh-in scheduled for 1400 tomorrow."_

A moment of stunned silence. He glanced up to where he knew the shipboard recorder to be located. _Bones? Pirating the ship's log feed for his own private use? He certainly doesn't have the technical know-how. Had someone helped him? Spock? Scotty maybe?_ He knew his weight had been up a few pounds at his physical last week, but this was just plain ridiculous.

"Bones, I'd really appreciate it if you could get to the point. I'm really busy at the moment – I have a ton of paperwork to get through before shift tomorrow."

"_Well that's odd, because according to what I'm showing here on the monitor at my desk, you activated the comm unit in the main mess. You inspecting the mashed potatoes for lumps, Jim?"_ The question came out innocently, effortlessly, and grated on Kirk's nerves no end.

"Just stocking up on some liquid energy to get me through the ordeal, or is black coffee also off the list of things I can have at the moment?" he said gruffly, tossing the large, wrapped, gooey, mouth-watering pastry into the waste receptacle with no small amount of displeasure.

"_Nah, that's perfectly fine," _his CMO drawled. _"Sorry to have bothered you, Jim. My mama always said I didn't have a lick of intuition, at least about anything that mattered. Carry on. I'll see you for breakfast tomorrow at 0700," _McCoy finished amiably.

_Not if I see you first_, Kirk thought darkly. But, "sure, that would be fine," is what came out of his mouth instead. "I've gotta go, Bones. See you tomorrow."

"'_Night, Jim. McCoy out."_

Kirk snapped off the intercom with a little more force than was necessary, and made his way back to the synthesizer. Retrieving an oversized, steaming cup from the unit this time, he headed for the door once again. No one took notice of the huge sigh that escaped their captain's lips as his eyes lingered briefly on the waste receptacle.

oooOOOooo

McCoy thumbed the circuit closed on his end, a soft chuckle escaping his throat. _Can't blame him for trying_ he mused silently. Depressing another switch, he began recording: "Personal log, Leonard H. McCoy, Chief Medical Officer, USS _Enterprise._ Note to self: be sure to thank Scotty tomorrow for rigging the captain's meal chits so I'd know exactly what he programmed into the synthesizer, and having all flagged items show up immediately in my inbox. Between the two of us, we'll get that extra ten pounds off the captain in no time."


	33. First Impressions

A/N: I've gotten away from doing these over the last few months; too many distractions from RL I'm afraid. However, this topic was just too delicious to pass up…;-)

**First Impressions**

_Could this day possibly get any worse?_ she thought grimly, hurriedly stuffing her personal belongings into the dresser of her assigned quarters. She'd been on board for just half an hour, and was already wondering just what she'd gotten herself into.

_I'm here to find Roger_, she reminded herself. _My life will be in a constant state of limbo until I finally know whether or not he's alive or dead._

Finishing with the unpacking, she flopped down onto the thin, Starfleet-issue mattress, hugging the pillow tightly to her chest. She wasn't scheduled to be on duty for another hour, so she'd use this time to get her bearings, quash her severe case of nerves; find her center.

The day had started off poorly. It had taken her weeks to even convince her last boss to recommend her for this position. "You're doing it for all the wrong reasons, Chris," she had insisted. "Space can be a very dangerous place, especially when you're assigned to Starfleet's flagship. No man is worth your life."

"It's not just about Roger," she had argued vehemently, albeit not totally accurately. "I'm a scientist, a bio-researcher. Space and the new alien worlds we'll visit represent the best place to make cutting-edge discoveries in my field. I'd be a fool to pass up a chance like this. Besides, they say the science officer on the _Enterprise_ is the best in the fleet. Imagine what it'd be like to work under his tutelage."

Mara had scoffed openly. "Well, in case you hadn't heard, the man's a _Vulcan_," she spat out forcefully. "If you want to work for a lackluster, emotionless cold fish that's your business, but I doubt that you – or anyone else in his department for that matter – will get any personal, one-on-one mentoring. You might as well be working for a computer."

Christine had been shocked by the vehemence of the response. Mara had never exhibited such a case of full-blown racial bigotry before. _I'll need to find somewhere else to work regardless, _she thought grimly, resolutely.

But Mara had seen fit to recommend her for the position nonetheless, and after a cursory OCS course at the Academy she'd been commissioned as an ensign in Starfleet a month ago, winning the coveted spot as head nurse for the _Enterprise_. The ship had been out on patrol, and she'd been at Starbase Twelve for ten days now, awaiting her chance to meet up with her newly-assigned vessel.

The ship had arrived this morning, but when Christine went to the personnel office to get her orders, they'd been unable to locate them, either in hard copy form or on the computer. After several hours of heated back-and-forth discussions between the office's commanding officer and the ship's CMO, a new set of orders had been cut, and she'd been on her way.

Her new boss had been the only one waiting to greet her when she arrived; the captain and first officer had had to beam down half an hour ago for a scheduled meeting with the Starfleet brass, he'd told her – rather irately – as he'd reached for one of her duffels.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be grousing at you, but the red-tape frustrates the hell out of me. For months I've been begging for a suitable head nurse, and when they finally find one for me, they then tell me she doesn't have orders assigning her here. Damn bureaucracy, they have no idea what it's like to run a medical facility on a starship. I've also requested a doctor more versed in Vulcan physiology than I am, just in case something happens to our illustrious, walking computer of a first officer. It'll be interesting to see how long they sit on that. Probably until a crisis is narrowly averted, or worse. Nothing like closing the barn door after all the horses have escaped, but it's par for the course for Starfleet, I'm afraid."

She'd stared at him, slack jawed, unsure of how to respond.

"Well, don't stand there gawkin'," he'd admonished gruffly. "C'mon, follow me. Let's get you settled in." The doors to the transporter room parted, and he had exited in a huff.

She had been close on his heels when a hand on her arm stopped her. She had turned and found herself staring into soft, brown eyes, a mischievous grin turning up the corners of the man's mouth. "Don't let him fool ye," he'd said, a lilting Scottish accent making the words gentle, melodic, strangely comforting. "Underneath that gruff, crotchety exterior beats the heart of a pussycat, not that he'd ever admit it to anyone. Ye'll be fine, lassie. Don't let our doctor intimidate ye."

Relief had washed over her like soft, summer rain. "Thank you, sir," she'd whispered, doing her best to swallow the nervousness she knew was flashing on her face like a distress beacon.

"Name's Montgomery Scott, but everybody calls me Scotty," he'd announced, a knowing grin stretched over his face. He had patted her arm. "Don't worry lass, he doesn't—"

The whistle of the intercom above her bed caused her to start violently, snapping her back to the present. _I'll definitely have to figure out how to turn down the volume on _that, she thought absently, pushing herself to a seated position. She flipped the switch and the viewer sprang to life, filling with the face of Doctor McCoy.

"S_orry to bother you, Nurse, but it's typical to hit the ground running 'round here. I just got a call from Scotty. One of his crew suffered radiation burns to his hand while trying to swap out a worn baffle plate on the warp engines. He isn't here yet, but from the sound of things, it might require surgery, but will at least need a thorough cleaning and dressing. Since the majority of my staff is currently enjoying shore leave, and you are the new Head Nurse, looks like it falls to you to assist me. Be here in three minutes._" He paused, pushing his face closer to the viewer. "_Do you know how to get here, or do I need to send someone to collect you?"_

"No sir; I've been studying the schematics for the last few days. On my way," she informed him, climbing hurriedly to her feet, snapping off the viewer and rushing for the door to her cabin.

Flying out through the breach, she bumped smack into an immovable force, a strong hand on her upper arm the only thing keeping her from winding up unceremoniously on her backside on the deck. She glanced up…and froze.

"My pardon, Miss Chapel; most clumsy of me. I trust you are uninjured?" A slanted eyebrow crept toward sleek black bangs, the strong hand steadying her; setting her back on her feet.

"Uh…sorry, sir," she heard herself stammer. "Doctor McCoy just called me and I'm on my way to sickbay." She found she was unable to tear her gaze away from those dark, penetrating eyes, that unfathomable, alien aura.

"Then I shall not delay you further," came the calm, composed response. He released his hold on her arm, melting into the crowded corridor.

She stood motionless in the middle of the corridor, barely noticing the crush of bodies as they moved to avoid her, her eyes fixed on the narrow shoulders as they retreated into the distance, her breath coming in short, quick gasps, her heart pounding, her palms suddenly damp.

During her most intimate moments with Roger, she'd never been affected that way. She could still feel the heat of his fingers lingering on her arm, the mystique of those strange, bottomless eyes tugging at her soul. Closing her own, she willed herself to breathe normally, struggling to calm her racing pulse.

_You IDIOT!_ she admonished herself. _Way to make a horrible first impression, and on your ultimate superior, no less._ No chance that he didn't know who she was – he'd called her by name, after all. _Could you have acted any more like a lovesick schoolgirl caught up in her first crush?_ Her eyes snapped open. _Maybe he didn't notice – he is a Vulcan after all. Emotions are supposedly lost on them._ She turned, hurrying in the direction of sickbay. _Get a grip, girl_ she told herself. _You've already humiliated yourself once today; let's not piss off the doctor as well – he's crabby enough to begin with._ She set off down the corridor at a swift pace, determined to make a better impression on McCoy.


	34. Kill Your Darlings

A/N: The topic was extremely dark this week – we were essentially asked to kill off our favorite character(s) – and this was all I could muster. I wrote this for DaisyDear – I'm sorry; I know this isn't exactly what you had in mind, but it was the only thing that worked within the parameters of the prompt. I'll try to come up with something a little less grim in the weeks to come.

This is such an iconic scene, I've written it without identifying any of the major players, save for one.

**Kill Your Darlings**

The guilt grips me with an iron fist, and it's all I can do not to spill the contents of my stomach. I am acutely aware of what this death will cost each of them, and I immediately blame myself. It should be me in there, not him. Normally I'm not one given over to sentimentality, but this is beyond the pale. How can I justify putting them both – putting the three of them – through this? This is my domain, my area of expertise. I should be the one staring blindly through the transparent walls of the chamber, speaking in a hushed, raspy voice, my vocal chords scorched by the intense radiation. But I realize my feelings of responsibility, of culpability, are unfounded. McCoy knew; was right when he said "no human can tolerate the radiation that's in there." I would have been lucky to even get the cap off the pedestal before succumbing to the fate that currently awaits the man on the inside of the barrier. And my effort would have been in vain; death would have claimed us all anyway. He saw the logic, the _necessity_ of his choice, even if I cannot at the moment. But that does nothing to ease the queasy feeling that has settled in my gut.

As much as I'd like to be able to close my eyes, to block out the heart-wrenching scene unfolding before me, I find I'm unable to look away. Mercifully, I cannot see the face of the man on the outside, but the cant of his shoulders; the rapid rise and fall of his chest say it all. There are no words which can adequately express the psychological toll which will be exacted on each of us present here; the emotional cost of seeing the two of them suffer like that – one in such physical pain, the other's raw emotional torment. It's something I've never witnessed before; never seen either of them in such a vulnerable state, and I find it to be almost unbearable. A feeling of shame washes over me as I realize we have no business being here; should not be privy to their most intimate last moments together. I know we should leave – I should gather up my lads and usher them out in order to afford the three of them the privacy they so desperately deserve – but it's as if all of us are nailed to the deck with duranium spikes, stunned by the events playing out before us, incapable of doing anything but bearing witness to the captain's naked anguish, the doctor's silent agony. They have been part of each other's lives for so long – not just the two of them but the three of them – that I'm not sure the two who will remain will be able to function properly without him.

I spare a glance at the man to my right, and he has gone white as new-fallen snow on Exo III. He, more than any of us, is aware of what the ultimate outcome will be; is tortured by the fact that despite all his skill, all his knowledge, he is powerless to stop the inevitable. Of the three, he is the easiest to read; the one most likely to have his innermost, private feelings on display for all to see, and I am acutely aware of the pain twisting his features – pain for the friend who is dying, and an almost inconsolable sadness for the one who will be left behind. I don't think he's even begun to address how this will affect him personally. Physician, heal thyself. If past actions are any indicator, his method of healing, of coping with this loss, will be to ignore the personal cost to himself; to plunge headfirst into his work; to make sure the rest of us come through this whole, and sane. It's a lofty goal I'm not sure he'll be able to manage. The carnage that will be inflicted upon all of us from this singular event will reach far beyond this room; will encompass so many more people than just those of us who are here, eyewitnesses to this unimaginable tragedy.

Tearing my gaze from them, my eyes take in the room around me. I can see that some of my lads have collapsed to the floor; are doubled over the numerous consoles sprouting from the deck and bulkheads like oversized mushrooms. One look at their shaking forms tells me it's not only due to radiation sickness, for I can hear their sobs echoing quietly throughout the chamber.

They may be young, they may be inexperienced, but even they realize the profound significance of this sacrifice, this altruistic and noble death, the ripples of which will impact all of us for many years to come. He was their teacher, their mentor, and they surely had a connection to him, but their loss will be as nothing compared to that faced by the two men in this room who are not members of my department.

I hold my breath as I watch him slip down the interior wall of the chamber, his movements mirrored by the one without, and I am painfully reminded that the end is near. This affects me more than I care to admit, for we are not without a history as well. He and I served together aboard this elegant lady long before she was entrusted to Starfleet's youngest captain; long before the three of them became inseparable, learned to function almost as one being. He and I may not have shared the personal rapport that existed between these two – these three – but there was a professional respect, a quiet camaraderie present connecting us nevertheless. Although profoundly different from what his two friends will experience, his passing will hold great significance for me as well. My eyes close briefly, but there is no hiding from this pain.

An anguished cry snaps me out of my private suffering, and a hurried glance at the chamber tells me that they have both collapsed; the one inside slumped against the wall, no longer breathing, the one without also propped against the see-through barrier, barely cognizant of his surroundings, struggling to control his breathing; wrestling with this unfathomable loss. No doubt he is experiencing some guilt, a sense of responsibility as well. Yet for him it will be much worse; be a much heavier burden to bear than my own.

I too, let out the breath I was holding; strive to control the pressure building behind my eyes, rail against the merciless pounding that has started in my temples, and come to understand that from this day forward, the _Enterprise_ will never be the same…

* For those of you unfamiliar with this scene, it is meant to be Spock's death in TWOK as seen through the eyes of Montgomery Scott.


	35. Seasons

A/N: This is a missing scene from the beginning of ST: V and contains spoilers for movies II-IV.

**Seasons**

An owl hooted nearby, causing him to shiver slightly. Sleep had been elusive anyway, despite the warmth of the fire and the thick sleeping bag. He lay awake for a while, listening to the chirp of crickets, the popping and spitting brought about by the flames licking along the substantial pile of wood, and the sighing of the wind through the pine boughs above them. Knowing it was pointless to remain here, he clambered silently to his feet, shrugging on a jacket, careful not to disturb the two other figures huddled near the blazing heat given off by the campfire.

Trudging as softly as possible through the dry leaves and twigs littering his path, he plunked himself down on a fallen log about thirty meters from the campsite. He breathed in deeply, the cool autumn air hanging briefly around his head in small, dense vapor clouds with each exhaled breath.

He'd always loved the fall. While as a kid growing up on the farm it had signaled the end of summer, a return to the rigors of schoolwork and the promise of hard work in the weeks to come getting all the crops harvested before winter, it also meant a respite from the oppressive heat of the previous months. With it came a chill to the air that was invigorating; seemed to intensify the snap and crackle of the carpet of dried organic matter that crunched under his feet as he traveled familiar paths through the dense woods near his boyhood home; added to their mounts' excitement as he and Sam raced their well-muscled steeds over the flat plains in the early dawn hours. It also served to mark the progression of time as the seasons blended, merged, disappeared into one another, signifying the passage of yet another year.

Autumn nights tended to be crisper and clearer as well, none of the hazy heat of summer obscuring the night sky. Gazing at the stars had been a favorite pastime as a boy and he tilted his chin up, taking in the spectacular view of the heavens over Yosemite. When he was younger, looking at the stars tended to have a soothing effect; had helped him work out issues that were troubling him, but tonight that timeworn strategy was showing little success. He sighed heavily. Had it all been worth it? Did he really and truly get back what he'd lost, or only a poor facsimile of what had been?

He was startled out of these thoughts by a hand landing on his shoulder. He glanced up into a pair of blue eyes, the worry evident even in the dim light of the crescent moon.

"You okay?" the doctor asked, settling himself beside him on the log.

"Just couldn't sleep," he answered lightly, not wanting to discuss the real reason he'd been on edge for the past few weeks.

"Me, either. Somehow I'm not finding this restful at all. Wonder why that might be, Jim," the mercurial surgeon groused. "Have any ideas?"

"C'mon Bones, you're not still mad at me for _that_, are you?" He tried on one of his trademark grins, guaranteed to melt even the iciest of hearts, but to no avail.

"'Course not," the doctor countered facetiously. "It's not like we haven't seen enough death and destruction over the last few months to last us a lifetime, right? Scotty's nephew, the scientists on Regula, the ship, your son, Spock…" the agitated voice trailed off. "Hell, if it weren't for George and Gracie, we wouldn't be here right now. Earth would be gone, too. Can you blame me for not wanting to add you to that list?"

The captain held his tongue, the sounds of the night filling the emptiness between them.

"Your trouble sleeping is tied to him in some way, I'll wager," the surgeon speculated astutely, a chin gesturing to their campsite and the third member of their party, left stretched out on the uneven ground before the fire.

"I don't want to talk about it, Bones," he countered harshly, looking away, refusing to meet the concerned gaze.

"Of course you don't – but you will anyway," the doctor said softly, sipping from a small metal flask which he then handed to his companion.

The proffered drink was readily accepted, a strong pull followed by the back of a hand wiping moist lips.

"He's different," the captain intoned after a lengthy pause, hands clasped loosely about the flask dangling precariously between his knees. "At times, it's almost as if I don't know him anymore. And Bones, the worst part is I'm afraid I may never know him again. The man we used to know – _I_ used to know – may be gone for good." He took another healthy swallow, the liquid tracing a fiery path to his gut, before passing the half-empty container back to its owner.

"All of us have to navigate through various seasons in our lives, Jim," the surgeon supplied gently. "Some are more difficult to traverse than others. This may be winter for Spock now, but if one thing's for sure in this world, winter always yields to spring, and a new beginning. Give him time. Don't push – just be there for him."

A long stretch of silence ensued, each man confronted with his memories of the past – of what had been and might never be again. The doctor was the first to break it. "This is all we can do – gently remind him of how things were and let him take it from there. So much was sacrificed by so many to bring Spock back to us that I, for one, can't and won't believe it was all for naught. And neither should you. Spring is coming, Jim; you just have to be patient until it gets here." He smiled weakly. "I know patience isn't one of your strong suits, but for right now, it's the best thing – the _only_ thing – we can do for Spock. Have a little faith that the universe will set itself right." The doctor climbed to his feet, squeezing the flannel-clad shoulder briefly before making his way back to the warmth of the fire.

Alone once more, the captain's thoughts were drawn to that awful day in the reactor room. Over the last few months he had done his best to avoid dwelling on that moment when his entire world had shifted, but Spock's last words now filled his head: _"I have been and always shall be your friend."_ It was almost as if the Vulcan had known; had been trying to reassure him that he'd be back, and things would once again be as they had always been between them. The captain's gaze automatically strayed to the stars. _We'll be there again, you and I, and all will be as it should, I'm certain of it._ Spock had never let him down in the past. Why should he start thinking the Vulcan would do so now? Feeling somewhat more at ease about recent idiosyncrasies in his friend's behavior, he rose to his feet as well, headed for his sleeping bag. His gaze lingered on the still form of the Vulcan for an instant before returning to the warmth and security of his own bed, closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep.


	36. Sink or Swim: Young McCoy

A/N: This is a prequel to my story 'The Road Less Traveled,' and represents a glimpse into McCoy's High School years. It's not necessary to have read that one for this to make sense – I hope… ;-)

**Sink or Swim: Young McCoy**

He swallowed nervously, the food on the tray before him remaining largely untouched. The room was abuzz with a myriad of conversations, pressing him from all sides, rendering each completely unintelligible. It didn't matter. He wasn't listening anyway. His eyes traveled across the room to where she was seated, surrounded by her usual throng of friends. She was speaking intently to one of them, a laugh suddenly erupting from behind perfect, white teeth. Looking skyward she tossed her head, flipping her long chestnut-brown tresses over her shoulder and away from her face. She glanced ever-so-briefly at him, her gaze immediately flicking away from his.

He suddenly felt nauseous, palms instantly sweating. Absently he wiped them across his thighs.

"Oh Lordy, not _this_ again," a sarcastic voice to his left quipped. Tearing his eyes away from the lithe beauty several tables over, his gaze came to rest on the face of his best friend.

"Huh?" he replied stupidly, distractedly.

"Don't gimme that, Lenny. You've been mooning over Joss for months now. Grow a pair and just go ask her out. If she says yes, then great, problem solved; if she says no, well game over, no sense pining for what you can't have." His friend heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Besides, I don't know how much more I can take of you constantly looking like someone just ran over your puppy," he finished with a smirk.

"Are you crazy, Jeff? She'd never go out with the likes of me. She's dated every top athlete in this school – the quarterback of the football team, captain of the basketball squad, star pitcher for the baseball team – if someone's got the slightest bit of athletic talent, and a good-looking face to go along with it, well, that's her type. She'd never be interested in a nerdy, introverted, homely science-geek like me."

"Well, I've got news for you, Sport. She may have dated all those guys, but she wound up dumping each and every one of them, too. Obviously they couldn't give her what she needs. Maybe a gangly science nerd is right up her alley at this point." Jefferson clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Besides, I've seen how she looks at you in chemistry class," his friend added smugly, cryptically.

"What? You're full of it," Leonard retorted in a harsh whisper, but his eyes, his demeanor begged for additional information that would corroborate the claim. "You're just trying to play me; get me to make a total fool out of myself in front of the whole cafeteria."

"You think so? Well, don't look now, Sport, but she's eyeing you up again," Jefferson responded, angling a chin toward the girl in question. Leonard snapped his gaze back to hers. This time, a small, wistful smile toyed at her lips before she once again concentrated her full attention on one of the other girls at her lunch table.

He turned to his friend, a bewildered look of confusion, vying with disbelief, plastered on his face.

"Yep, if I'm not mistaken, that's a sure sign she's interested. So you gonna do something about it, or just sit here like a deer caught in the headlights until another star athlete asks her out? She broke up with Scott last week, and a girl like that is never single for long."

He swallowed again, tasting bile this time, when a flurry of movement caught his attention. Joss had gotten to her feet, tray in hand, heading for the waste receptacles. He jumped to his feet as well, no concrete plan in mind other than following her there. He reached them just as she had dumped the contents of her tray. Turning to leave, she almost ran into him. They did an awkward dance for several seconds, she trying to step around him and he, always moving into her path, only succeeding in blocking her escape route.

"Sorry," he stammered, finally planting both feet. He glanced at her, looking quickly away.

"Gosh, don't apologize," she said in that sweet, lilting, singsong voice of hers, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Totally my fault." She grinned at him and he felt his knees go weak. God she was beautiful.

"Leonard, right?" she asked. "Leonard McCoy?"

"Yep," he heard himself answer in a none-too-steady voice.

"Jocelyn Dupree. Nice to meet you," she said, extending a petite hand. He grasped it, reveling in the feel of her soft skin against his. "My family just moved here last summer," she announced. He nodded dumbly, praying he wouldn't faint. He remembered the exact day, the exact _second_, he had seen her for the first time. "Don't we have a class together?" she asked innocently.

He nodded again, feeling the sweat break out on his brow. "Organic chemistry, third period, Mister Tuttle," he supplied, relieved he had managed to say anything at all; the fact that it hadn't come out as total gibberish was a definite plus.

"I hate that class," she pouted. "I just don't seem to have the mind for science."

"Well, I'm doing pretty well in it. Maybe I could help you with it sometime…" he asked uncertainly, his voice trailing off.

"Oh Lenny, I'd really like that," she responded enthusiastically, green eyes sparkling, her hand finding and squeezing his forearm. The conversation was interrupted by one of her friends, waving urgently from across the room. "Sorry Lenny, I've gotta go – the cheerleading squad is meeting before fifth period but definitely call me," she said, pressing a scrap of paper into his hand. "I need all the help I can get in that class." And with that she was gone, his eyes trailing hungrily after her.

As if from far away, a tiny voice, speaking to him insistently, grew ever louder. Finally the words came into clear focus. "Lenny? What happened? Did you ask her out?" this from Jefferson, who had materialized at his elbow.

He turned to his friend wearing a silly grin. "Sure did, and got her number to boot," he said, brandishing the scrap of paper like a winning lottery ticket. "I guess maybe you were right," he said, eyes shifting again to her retreating form. Well, he'd survived the first trial, and was bound and determined to make her fall in love with him, just as he was already hopelessly in love with her.


	37. Sink or Swim: McCoy

A/N: Here's entry number two for this week. Boy, my Muse sure has seen fit to pound on McCoy of late… ;-)

**Sink or Swim: McCoy**

He licked his lips, tasting blood, one eye already starting to swell shut. _Get a grip, McCoy_, he admonished himself silently, watching carefully as his opponent circled, looking for an opening, or a moment of weakness. _Everything is riding on you; it's time to sink or swim_, he reminded himself. There was so much at stake – not only his life, but those of his two companions. He spared a glance at Jim and Spock, bound to a tall pole atop a substantial pile of wood. If he failed, not only would he perish, but the two men whose lives he was responsible for would be immolated as surely as the Earth orbited Sol every 365 days.

No matter the outcome, he'd never forgive Spock for allowing him to be placed in this situation; where the survival of the three of them was dependent on his skill in hand-to-hand combat. _I'm a doctor, not a street-fighter_, he thought darkly as he backpedaled quickly to avoid a lunge by his opponent. How had Spock not detected the natives? The Vulcan _always _knew; was always cognizant of their surroundings when they beamed down to an unknown world. How had his tricorder failed to register the six well-armed men who had taken them prisoner?

The Universal Translator had still been trying to process the unfamiliar alien language, not having much to go on as the three of them had been marched in silence to the native's village. At a few words from the most ornately-adorned being there – their chief in all likelihood – Jim and Spock had been instantly whisked away by two burly guards and summarily lashed to the as yet unlit pyre. He had been dragged to a small, oblong arena of sorts, obviously meant to do battle with a rather menacing-looking warrior located at the opposite end, a noisy throng of villagers, including women and children, gathered about the perimeter.

Nearest he could figure, they had inadvertently trespassed on ground that was sacred to the indigenous tribe. The only way to make restitution for their transgression was in a one-on-one fight with their top warrior, both combatants armed only with the physical gifts their individual deity had seen fit to bestow upon them. And if he wasn't mistaken, the native God had granted his opponent considerably more strength than he himself had.

Despite that, it was paramount that he come out on top in this struggle, for their very survival depended on it. He wasn't completely sure, but based on gestures made by the leader before the start of the contest, it seemed that if he won, the three of them would be deemed benevolent spirits, sent by the Creator to consecrate the final resting place of their honored dead. If he lost, well then the members of this native contingent would have succeeded in banishing a triad of evil spirits who had come to desecrate the graves of their most revered warriors. The primitive hand-signals left no doubt as to the fate that awaited the three of them should he fail to defeat his opponent.

He suspected the chief had chosen him from among the three because he differed the most in appearance from the general populace. The _Enterprise _men were all pale by comparison, their skin many shades lighter than that of their captors, all of whom had dark hair cut in a similar style to Spock's, a stocky build, oversized ears, and brown eyes. Granted, Jim's ears were small and his eyes were hazel, but they did appear to be a soft, muted shade of brown depending on the light. Kirk's build did most closely match that of their adversaries, and while Spock was thin, there was a quiet aura to the Vulcan that radiated power. McCoy had none of those qualities, and his icy blue eyes immediately set him apart from everyone around him. No doubt that's why he'd been selected – to the native inhabitants he must be the epitome of a demon or something. That or their leader had selected the weakest-looking of the three of them, hoping to insure a victory for their champion.

These thoughts were interrupted as he dodged a blow to the head, catching one in the ribs instead, forcing the air out of his lungs in a definitive whoosh. He swung blindly at his opponent, his fist connecting with nothing but recently-vacated space as his ochre-skinned opponent danced just out of reach.

Visions from his combat training course at the Academy crowded his brain as he saw his well-muscled attacker gathering himself for another assault. Granted, at the time he had not paid much attention; entering Starfleet as a physician pretty much guaranteed that he would not be on the front lines as a fighting man, but he strove to remember something – _anything _– that would help him defeat his opponent and thus spare the lives of his two friends. Over the chants and taunts of the natives, he could hear Jim shouting, but it was as if his CO were trying to communicate with him in Greek – or Rigellian – the words total gibberish. He couldn't spare an ounce of concentration to focus on what the captain was saying. To do so would almost guarantee the scantily-clad warrior before him the chance to use the moment of inattentiveness to his advantage, leading to the doctor's ultimate demise.

In his head, he went over the weak points in human anatomy – the hollow at the base of the throat, the temples, the knees, the eyes, the instep, and of course the genitals. _What are the odds they'd be the same for this species_? he thought dourly, certain the Vulcan could calculate them in a millisecond.

Instinct took over (that and a strong desire not to wind up beaten to a bloody pulp) as the people's champion lunged at him again. Sidestepping quickly, he slammed a booted foot into the alien knee, continuing the downward motion, raking over the inside of the leg, his heel finally landing on top of the man's bare foot.

Letting out a grunt of pain, the man was momentarily thrown off balance. Seeing his chance, McCoy grabbed one of the arms, twisting the palm of the hand upward and behind the broad back, forcing his opponent to his knees. Keeping the arm fully extended and applying steady pressure at the wrist, he placed a hand on the elbow, prepared to bend the joint in a manner that it was not intended to go if necessary. If the man struggled now, the arm was sure to break, in several places.

The chief then leapt to his feet, shouting something the UT still refused to render, and the man below him went limp, sinking face-down to the ground. McCoy maintained his hold on the arm, eyeing the group warily. The leader approached the combatants slowly, unmistakably signaling for McCoy to release the downed man. Casting a look of uncertainty at the captain, a nod of affirmation caused him to let go of his adversary. Taking a few steps backward, he was dumbfounded as the man rose to his knees, head bowed before the chief, eyes closed, his demeanor one of complete submission.

The leader drew a long blade from a sheath attached to his back, raising it above his head. Muttering a few words, the translator finally provided a comprehensible equivalent for one of them: death. Instantly aware of the chief's intention, McCoy shouted, throwing himself over the hunched form, totally unaware of or unconcerned with the danger to himself, his only goal to preserve the life of the man who minutes before had been his enemy.

The chief stopped, wide brown eyes meeting angry blue ones. After a moment the leader sheathed his weapon, extending his hands to each of the men before him, grinning widely. Apparently the doctor's natural impulse to protect the defeated man had been correct.

McCoy grasped the outstretched hand, returning the grin and then gesturing to his two companions. Clapping his hands, the chief barked out hasty orders, another word finally registering in his brain: freedom. Jim and Spock were instantly released, making their way quickly to McCoy's side.

"Bones, are you all right?" Kirk asked, a hand on the doctor's shoulder, concerned eyes searching the bruised and bloodied face.

"Yeah, it's all superficial; no long-lasting trauma," he said, sparing his captain a comforting grin, which melted away as his eyes met the Vulcan's.

"Most impressive, Doctor. I had calculated the odds at nine to one in favor of the native warrior."

"Yeah, well it just goes to show what a little Southern determination, coupled with being scared shitless, can accomplish. No thanks to you, I might add. How the hell did they get so close to us in the first place without your tricorder picking them up?"

Spock chose not to respond, an eyebrow raised in a combination of confusion and embarrassment.

"You're just lucky I was able to remember a few moves from the combat training course at the Academy otherwise your gooses would have been cooked for sure."

Kirk could only laugh. "Well done, Bones," he said, clapping his CMO on the shoulder. "For once, _you_ saved _our_ hides in a knock-down, drag-out fistfight." Kirk was positively beaming.

"Well, don't get used to the idea," McCoy said in a huff. "This'll be the first and last time if I have my druthers."


	38. Momentous Moments

A/N: Okay folks, here goes nuthin'. I want to preface this by saying this is a hot-button, often controversial topic, and is merely an outpouring of my own ramblings on the matter. It is in no way intended to belittle or nullify anyone's beliefs, and if there are those who find it in any way offensive, please accept my humblest apology, for that was certainly not what I had in mind.

This is actually a follow-on (or prequel really) to the chapter I did entitled 'Home for the Holidays – take two.'

This is dedicated to my dear friend T'Paya – my advisor and mentor for all things spiritual. I may not be able to live up to all her expectations in this area, but over the last few years she has given me much to contemplate – in the best possible way imaginable. :D You see, my dear – I have been listening most attentively. ;-)

**Momentous Moments**

"Spock," she called softly. "All done?"

"Yes, Mother," he answered politely, respectfully.

"Teeth brushed, face washed?" she asked playfully.

"Yes, Mother," he reiterated, unsure as to why she found it necessary to repeat herself – not literally, of course, but the second question had been implied by the first.

She patted his sheets, beckoning him to come and join her where she was seated on his bed. He complied, dutifully sliding his legs beneath the covers, leaning his back against the pillow, waiting expectantly for her to continue. "Are you excited about tomorrow?" she asked finally, a hint of a smile playing about her lips.

"I do not understand," the seven-year-old responded. "Tomorrow marks the most sacred holiday of the Vulcan people, celebrated universally across the planet, but it is not a time for excitement; rather for personal introspection and reflection. A way for Vulcans to appreciate the sacrifices and wisdom of our ancestors, which led to our acceptance of total logic as the basis for our current way of life, and as a means to preserve our culture; a way to prevent the total annihilation of our race – the path that was sure to follow had we continued to allow ourselves to be ruled by our passions."

"It sounds to me like you understand perfectly," his mother answered with a hint of pride, "But did you know that this year the Vulcan holiday of Gad Kaunsh'es corresponds with a significant holiday on my homeworld as well?"

The youngster considered that for a moment. At this point in his life he was only familiar with two Earth holidays – Christmas and the Fourth of July. A quick mental calculation to compare the two calendars, allowing for the differences in rotational times and the length of an orbital year for each world told him unequivocally that neither one was correct. "I did not," he replied truthfully.

"Well, the holiday in question is Easter. It is a religious holiday, celebrated by many different sects all across my home planet, but in a way, it is quite similar to Gad Kaunsh'es," she informed him, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Indeed," he responded in all seriousness. "I was not aware humans had ever attempted to cast out their animal passions," he finished with no small measure of surprise.

She chuckled softly. "Oh, Spock, they aren't similar in a literal way, but figuratively."

He raised an eyebrow at that, silently waiting for her to clarify her statement.

"Both represent a rebirth, of sorts. You already understand the rebirth commemorated by the Vulcan holiday. I wish to explain to you the meaning behind this holiday from my planet," she announced. "While Gad Kaunsh'es represents the intellectual rebirth of the Vulcan people, Easter represents rebirth for humans, both literally and figuratively. It is meant to commemorate the literal rebirth of the man Jesus Christ three days after he was crucified, but also the figurative rebirth of the human race," she continued.

Spock struggled to remember the name. "Jesus Christ was the child whose birth is commemorated on Christmas is he not?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Why would a child whose birth was deemed so important have been crucified later in life, Mother?" Spock had studied some of Earth's early history. He knew this was a particularly barbaric and cruel way to be put to death, and was often used for what would be considered minor crimes by today's standards.

"There are those who believe He was the Son of God, and He was sacrificed as a way to offer salvation for any of Earth's people who believed in Him."

The boy's dark eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Is there proof of this claim?" his logical mind asked. "How can one be the son of a mythical being?" For one whose life experiences were dedicated to all that was tangible, that which could be seen, touched, or explained through science, it was a most challenging hypothesis to grasp.

"There are many on my planet who do not believe God is mythical, but that He does exist, despite the fact that no one has ever seen Him. That is the primary tenet of faith. As for Christ, believers on my world see the teachings outlined in the Bible as proof of His lineage."

Spock considered this bit of information as well. The Bible was one of many religious works from his mother's world, other notable teachings being the Koran, the Tanakh, the Book of the Dead, and the Bhagavad Gita to name a few. "The Bible is a text many millennia old," the young man offered astutely, "often copied by hand by scribes who themselves were unable to read or write. Those who could were often given the task of translating the work in question into another language. How can we be sure that what was written so long ago has been accurately portrayed throughout the ages? And given that there are a significant number of religious texts on Earth, spanning numerous belief systems, how can we know with certainty which is correct?"

"That's the definition of faith, my son. It's not really important to know which is correct. All may be correct or incorrect in their own way. The importance is simply to believe in something, to have faith in that belief and draw strength from it."

"Forgive me, but I do not follow how these two holidays, these two principles, relate to one another. One is based in fact while the other is strictly conjecture."

"Do we know that for sure? Isn't it possible as well that that which has been written and passed down through the ages regarding the teachings of Surak and the casting out of emotions on this world have been distorted over the millennia? Or that the teachings of the Bible are accurate and come down to us without change? For those who believe this to be true, that is the epitome of the concept of faith."

"I do not understand. Please clarify this concept," the child asked, nonplussed.

"Faith is not based on something concrete, but rather is a belief not resting on logical proof or material evidence," his mother explained patiently.

"Then how is one to conclude that the events described are indeed, fact?"

"That's the biggest mystery of faith, for it doesn't come from without, but within."

"How is that possible?"

"On my world, belief in a Supreme Being stems from individual faith that despite not having seen this God, He does, in fact, exist."

"And why would one choose to believe such a thing without absolute proof?"

"It depends on your personal definition of 'absolute proof.' To Vulcans, who pride themselves on their logic and ability to explain all things rationally, it means believing only in what they can see, whereas humans sometimes believe in the intangible." At her son's look of confusion, she pressed on. "They look for ways to explain those feelings of unease that niggle at the back of your brain, perhaps dissuading one from getting on a Maglev train that later crashes, killing all aboard, or the person who wakes up one day, miraculously cured from a debilitating disease that modern medicine couldn't treat. How do these things come about? There is no logical explanation, and there are many throughout the galaxy who attribute these things to faith – whether it be in the form of a Supreme Deity, the belief that ancestors who have passed on watch over and protect future generations of their families, or a concept that we have yet to learn."

"I do not comprehend the meaning of this lesson, Mother. Vulcans do not practice a belief in faith, so how is this knowledge meant to impact me?"

"I'm just trying to open your mind to the wide variety of viewpoints expressed throughout the galaxy. I didn't bring this up in an effort to undue all the concepts and philosophies you have learned to date, but to make you aware that a diverse assortment of sentient life allows for just as many differing points of view, all of which seem quite normal and natural to the races who subscribe to them. Just as logic and the casting out of emotions worked for the Vulcan people, faith can and has proven to be a powerful tool for others. Unfortunately, differences in faith can also lead to horrible tragedies, to huge misunderstandings between people who cannot see eye to eye because their basic ideologies differ from one another.

"I just want you to realize that in some things, there may be more than one answer, and that each may be right in its own way. That just because we can't explain something, or understand it fully, that doesn't make it wrong by default."

A frown creased the youngster's brow. "It is a complicated concept," he admitted finally, confusion swirling in the dark eyes that met hers.

"Agreed," she conceded. "And declarations of faith, or what one group of people considers to be of supreme importance can often be difficult for others to comprehend.

"There will come a time in your life when your experiences are not solely limited to this planet, or how Vulcans view the world around them," she announced prophetically, "and you will therefore need to understand that there are many philosophies throughout the galaxy; that all races and sentient beings need to be mindful and respectful of these differences if we are to be able to live together in harmony."

The confusion suddenly lifted from the youthful face. "It is much like the concept of IDIC," he declared resolutely.

"Exactly. It was a lesson it took us a long time to understand and master on Earth, and is a lesson that is now being played out in the galaxy as we encounter more and more intelligent life. As Vulcan's Ambassador to the Federation, your father must juggle ideas such as these on a daily basis. They influence how he interacts with those around him, and rightly so. Faith may not be logical, but it is of great importance, especially for those who have it, and we must never forget that."

The boy pondered that in silence, sliding farther beneath his blankets and laying himself down upon the mattress. His mother pulled the covers up around him, smoothing them across his slender form.

"Just something to remember and consider during your reflections and private meditations of tomorrow," she stated softly, climbing to her feet, switching off the lamp, and pulling his bedroom door closed gently behind her.


	39. Lies

A/N: This implies an understanding of the people and events from the TOS episode 'This Side of Paradise,' and is a missing scene from Spock's earlier years before becoming First Officer of the Enterprise, the events alluded to but never fully explained in the episode. This is my take on what might have happened all those years ago...

**Lies**

He hadn't hurt like this since he was a child; since I-Chaya had died, in fact. And frankly, he'd thought he was beyond this kind of pain; had mastered and banished it decades ago. But the worst part was that he was not the only one hurting. The thought of what he had done to her, of seeing the tears coursing down her cheeks, the anger, sadness and look of rejection written on her face was a vision he simply could not erase, hours upon hours of intense meditation notwithstanding…

oooOOOooo

_Three weeks ago._

"Congratulations on your promotion Spock – it was well-deserved."

He nodded hesitantly in acknowledgement of the praise, always uncomfortable in these types of situations. For Vulcans, excelling, giving your all, was second-nature. He could have done nothing else.

Standing at parade rest before his captain's desk, hands clasped loosely behind his back, he listened attentively as the man continued speaking. "To celebrate, I'm sending you to a two-week Xeno-botany symposium on Earth," Captain Pike stated, smiling warmly at the newly-minted Lieutenant Commander.

He was seized by a moment of confusion tinged ever-so-slightly with panic. "I do not understand, sir," he mumbled softly.

"Spock, you've been serving aboard this vessel for seven years now, and not once have you seen fit to take a leave of any sort."

Ah, so that was the meaning of choosing to send him away. He relaxed slightly, at least as much as his stoic nature would permit. "Vulcans do not require leave in the same way that humans do, sir. For us, to take leave means 'to rest,' literally. Physically, I do not require rest at this time."

Pike regarded his science officer with a wry, affectionate grin. "I'm aware of that, Mister Spock. But just because you feel you don't _need _leave doesn't mean you shouldn't _take _leave on occasion."

"Do you believe it would be beneficial for me to take leave, sir?" he asked, once again tormented by a twinge of apprehension. "Have I been performing at a sub-standard rate?"

The captain chuckled at that. "Not in the least. You're one of my best officers, and as such I want to reward that, as well as commemorate your promotion."

"Again, I am at a loss, sir. How is sending me away from my duties meant to reward above-par performance?" Despite his best efforts he could not keep a look of anxiety from flitting briefly across his features.

"Spock…" Pike let out a frustrated sigh, intent on making the logical youth before him understand. "You make it sound like punishment. Well, it's not, you know. You're a scientist. The annual Xeno-botany symposium is one of the best in the galaxy. It involves two weeks of lectures, interspersed with hands-on experiments and lab work. It's being held in Salzburg, Austria, on Earth this year. It's worth going just for the chance to explore that city during the conference's down-time alone. It's the birthplace of Mozart, not to mention that a medieval castle and several ancient cathedrals make up a significant portion of the old city, separated from the new section by the Salzach River. The city is a historian's paradise in its own right, what with the abundance of old-style baroque architecture. That, combined with one of the most prestigious scientific conferences in the galaxy, should put it right up your alley." Pike's blue eyes searched his own. "I know I can't talk you into taking leave to rest, but I figured you'd have no objection to a working vacation." The captain's look grew serious. "You don't, do you?"

It seemed this decision on the captain's part was not debatable. In all but literal words, Pike was ordering him to attend.

He permitted himself an inward sigh of defeat. There was no question that he would not do his captain's bidding. "No, sir," he answered quickly, evenly, drawing himself to attention.

"Good. It's all settled then. The shuttle departs Starbase Two for Earth tomorrow at 0900, so you'd better get packed. We'll see you in three weeks, Mister Spock, allowing for the requisite travel time, of course."

"Yes, sir," the Vulcan responded crisply, turning on his heel and making for the door to Pike's quarters.

oooOOOooo

"I'm sorry, is this seat taken?"

He'd looked up, straight into the biggest, bluest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. Inexplicably, his mouth had gone suddenly dry, his brain fumbling for a coherent answer. "No, by no means," he'd managed to squeeze out in a voice that bordered on normal.

The slender, young blond woman had quickly seated herself, drawing a PADD from her bag and stuffing the oversized behemoth neatly under her chair. "I knew this symposium would be crowded, but I had no idea just how many people would be attending," she said, eyes sweeping over the large lecture hall, brimming with at least a thousand beings from a dozen Federation worlds. "Leila Kalomi," she'd announced brightly, extending her hand, a warm smile stealing over her face.

Despite his usual distaste for casually touching others he'd grasped the proffered appendage, marveling at the softness of her skin. "I am called Spock," he'd said in a firmer voice, gradually gaining control over himself.

"That's a Starfleet uniform, right?" she'd asked, her gaze intent upon him.

"Affirmative," he'd supplied. "I am currently stationed aboard the _Enterprise_." They'd continued to make small talk for the next several minutes, until the lights flickered several times, alerting the audience that the lecture was to begin momentarily.

oooOOOooo

It had been a whirlwind two weeks, and he'd spent the majority of his time with Leila, both at the conference and during their off-hours as well. His mind slipped to last night, his final one on Earth, the symposium having come to a close earlier that afternoon, as the two of them had shared a meal at one of the local restaurants. He'd been thoroughly enjoying himself, basking in her company, until the conversation had taken a most unexpected turn. "Do I have to spell it out for you?" she'd asked softly, her voice pleading, her fingers intertwining with his as she grasped his hand, lying on the table between them. He'd been at a loss for words, and at his silence she'd forged on, earnestly, fearlessly. "I'm in love with you, Mister Spock. Can you honestly say you don't feel the same?"

He had abruptly snatched his hand back, the bottom dropping out of his stomach, a myriad of thoughts and answers pressing him. He had an obligation to Starfleet, to his ship, to T'Pring, not to mention to his Vulcan heritage. Vulcans simply didn't behave in this manner, spending time and falling in love with women they barely knew. Finally, he'd given the only answer he could, the only one possible given the circumstances. "Forgive me, Leila, but that emotion is foreign to me. I do not reciprocate the feeling," he'd said, ashamed that he now knew with certainty what it felt like to lie between his teeth.


	40. Chores

A/N: And here's my humble offering for this prompt. Sorry guys, this is all over the map. It started out as a scene from the first story I'd ever written for a challenge as seen through the eyes of an impartial third party, but somewhere along the line it became a tribute to the men in my life, who obsess over the cleanliness of their vehicles. Go figure...

**Week #70 – Chores**

"_Crewman Himenez, report to sickbay."_

Jorge groaned inwardly. Anything but that. Being part of the _Enterprise's_ maintenance crew, he knew he was expected to perform a number of duties, but being called to sickbay was surely the worst. Sighing heavily, he stopped before the nearest comm unit in the corridor, depressing the switch on the wall-mounted device.

"Himenez here," he replied. "Acknowledged. On my way, ma'am."

For him, enlisting in Starfleet had been a means to an end. With no discernible skills he had been assigned to starship maintenance, but on this vessel, anyone with the drive and determination to better himself could do so. Many of the various departments aboard ship offered specialized training; all one had to do was show some aptitude and a sincere interest in the subject matter, and their instructors would see to it that their protégés were able to move onward and upward within the ranks. Six months later he was still trying to figure out what specialty suited him best.

Not that maintenance crew duty was all bad. He smiled to himself, remembering the task he had completed earlier today. He'd stood back, surveying his handiwork. God, he loved this aspect of the job. The outer hull was gleaming, the exhaust vents for the small engines that powered the little craft free from dust or debris, the viewing ports sparkling and crystal clear, the call sign and name of the vessel clearly visible on her side: _Galileo II, NCC-1701/7._ She had returned from landing party duty not two hours before, her landing skids caked with mud, her exterior smudged with dirt, her interior suffering from the indifference with which her passengers had trudged through her with filthy boots. This was the condition she had been in when she was delivered into his capable hands. Under his tender ministrations, she now looked like she had just rolled off the assembly line, more than ready for her next mission, be it a simple planet survey or something as grand as ferrying important diplomatic personnel to their next assignment.

Granted, this was certainly far removed from the most important job on board, but he always felt a swell of pride when he noticed the small smile of approval lingering on the captain's face as he climbed into a pristine, spit-polished vessel, or the way the chief engineer beamed at his 'wee bairns.'

There were many aspects to the job: Cleaning air circulation vents, straightening up the briefing rooms after they'd been used for meetings, keeping all the plumbing and drains aboard free of clogs, and giving the mess halls the once over after meals to name a few. It never ceased to amaze him sometimes just how sloppy these so-called 'professional officers' could be – coffee sloshed onto smooth tabletops, crumbs everywhere, napkins that had fallen to the deck unnoticed, and condiment stains dotting the floor. But at least that was routine – it was so much worse when someone spilled a beverage or dropped a tray of food. Not that it happened often – he wasn't surrounded by a ship full of toddlers, after all – but there were certainly more incidents than one would expect.

But sickbay – that was the bane of his existence. In the short time he'd been stationed aboard the _Enterprise _he'd surely cleaned every bodily fluid known to man off the decks, walls, surgery tables and biobeds in the ward. Last month had been the worst – a particularly nasty outbreak of Capellan Flu had landed a quarter of the crew there at one time or another over the course of a week. The health crisis had kept people from his department hopping. They were barely able to get one mess cleaned up before they were confronted with another. Not to mention the little fires they were called upon to put out all over the ship as crewmen had succumbed to the first symptom – projectile vomiting.

Surely this wouldn't be a repeat of _that_, he thought, as the doors to medical swished open. Nurse Chapel had turned at the sound of the doors parting.

"Himenez," she began apologetically, "I'm so sorry, but someone got sick on the floor in the main ward. It will need to be mopped up and disinfected."

"I'll take care of it, no problem, ma'am," he said, shouldering his sonic cleaning unit as he made for the other room, relieved that sickbay seemed to be fairly deserted. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad this time. Three steps into the main ward and he came across the chunky puddle, still oozing slowly forth in an ever-widening irregular ellipse, reminiscent of a giant, lumbering amoeba.

He trained the compact machine on the unsightly mess, beginning to suction what he could from the floor, when the sound of soft music reached his ears. He was unfamiliar with the piece, but the haunting strains, combined with the unmistakable sounds made by a stringed instrument, told even his untrained ear that it was Mister Spock playing his Vulcan lyre.

Puzzled by that development, he soon dismissed it, focusing once again on the task at hand. As he switched the piece of equipment to scrub mode, coating the now-empty spot with a thin layer of disinfectant, the music stopped suddenly, to be replaced by the incoherent babble of low voices. After a moment a new song began, the melody of 'Beyond Antares' instantly recognizable, followed shortly by the most god-awful mewling he had ever heard in his life.

The sound of the tool in his hands clattering to the floor was lost in the booming cacophony of what he could only suppose was meant to be singing. He clapped his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to block out the offending noise. Standing stock-still just inside the doorway, he was almost bowled over by the ship's CMO who came bounding into the room, heading for a bed located at the far end.

"What in the name of Hades is happening out here? Sounds like someone is strangling a Centaurian Ceil Cat," he heard McCoy exclaim.

"The Captain was regaling me with his exceptional singing voice," was the answer, the voice most certainly belonging to the first officer.

"Well, he needs to cease and desist," the doctor groused. "Jeez Jim, I'm trying to save lives here, not make my patients wish for death."

_Amen to that_, Himenez thought silently, his own eardrums still ringing from the painful assault on his auditory senses.

"Your singing does leave quite a bit to be desired, Captain," he heard the Vulcan agree contritely.

"Yeah Jim, don't give up your day job," McCoy threw out, the irritation is his tone lending emphasis to his words.

Finally, it all made sense. Himenez had heard the scuttlebutt floating around the ship, saying the captain had had to drink some pretty nasty stuff several hours ago as a way to win favor with the natives on the planet below and get them to agree to the terms of the treaty proposed by the Federation. If Mister Spock was feeling well enough to play, odds were it had been the captain who was responsible for the pile he'd just eliminated. And that _singing_ – surely that wasn't something Kirk would do unless he was not quite himself.

"Himenez."

He started guiltily, looking up into the face of the ship's surgeon. "Thanks for cleaning up the mess, son. As I'm sure you've already realized, the captain is a bit under the weather at the moment, so what you've seen and heard here is not to leave the confines of this room. Do I make myself clear?" the doctor asked, the icy blue eyes boring into him, hands clasped behind his back, the man bouncing slightly on his toes.

"Y-yes, sir," he stammered, bending to retrieve the cleaning implement he'd dropped.

"All right, son," the surgeon answered, the craggy features softening. "That will be all. Dismissed."

"Aye sir," he squeaked out, turning and bolting for the doors. Once he reached the relative safety of the busy corridor, he began to reevaluate things. Would he have to do something like that someday if he pursued the command track? At least he wasn't getting shot at on a daily basis by aliens hell-bent on depriving him of his life like some of his friends in security. And his roommate, a petty officer in engineering, had suffered severe radiation burns to his hands last week. In six months, the worst thing he'd had to do was unclog a toilet. Maybe being a member of the maintenance crew wasn't such a bad gig after all…

oooOOOooo

If you wish to learn more about why Kirk was in sickbay and why he puked all over the floor, the answer can be found in my story 'Three Sheets to the Wind.'

I know, shameless plug. ;)


	41. Resolutions

**A/N: **In honor of the New Year, the prompt was resolutions. None of the major players are identified by name; I'm gambling that through context the main protagonist will reveal himself. It's not someone I usually write for, so hopefully his voice is correct.

I've gotten lax where the free writes are concerned, passing on them more often than not of late. Perhaps my resolution should be to make the effort to get back in the habit of doing these.

**Resolutions**

He was having difficulty concentrating. He'd followed all the proper steps, progressed through the ever-increasing levels, but for some reason the peaceful release of meditation was eluding him this evening – something that hadn't happened to him in over a hundred years.

_And yet_, his logical brain told him, _you know precisely the reason_. Even now, he fairly vibrated with relief, sincere gratitude, and much to his chagrin, profound joy. The relief and gratitude were acceptable, but joy was not expressed in his culture, at least not openly. In spite of that, he found he was unable to contain it. Today, against all odds, his son had been returned to him. He had lost his eldest son over half a century ago – not in the literal sense, but the boy's presence in his life had been terminated all the same.

And a week ago, he'd been told his youngest son had been taken from him as well – although this time there was no ambiguity about the nature of the loss. His son had given his life to save others; to ensure the continued existence of his shipmates. While that in itself was admirable, and logical, and a sacrifice he would have expected from his only other offspring, it didn't make the loss any easier to bear. He and his son had been at odds for the better part of thirty-five years, but still he'd been unprepared for the raw, gaping wound the news had left upon his soul.

He shifted his position; opened eyes that had been closed in an effort to banish the demons currently plaguing him. He knew without question that any further attempts to attain a true Zen state would prove futile. Climbing to his feet he stepped away from his meditation statue, opting instead for a seat behind his Spartan desk.

_My logic is uncertain where my son is concerned_, he'd admitted freely in front of witnesses. So why was it so difficult to admit this fact to the one who needed to hear it the most? Perhaps he'd had unrealistic expectations for his second child, given the circumstances surrounding the boy's birth. He had been determined not to repeat the mistakes he had made with his firstborn. With that in mind he had leaned heavily on the boy, and to his mind, it made a difference. Although he hadn't been able to express it openly to his son, he had secretly watched his youngest child come into his own; had followed the boy's progress, and career, with no small measure of fatherly pride.

_Utter foolishness,_ his wife would admonish, and in this instance he had to admit that she would be right. He was hit by a small spark of shame at his inability to convey his approval to his youngest son. Throughout the child's upbringing he had constantly been aware of the opinion of others; had worked tirelessly to ensure that the boy would be accepted by his peers and superiors alike. He had pushed the child to prove that despite his mixed heritage, his son was no different than any full-blooded person on the planet.

As a father he had achieved that goal, but at what cost? In spite of being the equal of those around him in every sense of the word, his son still had not meshed well into the society into which he had been born.

_Am I partly to blame?_ he asked himself honestly. _Did others take their cues from my behavior? Did my own personal bias influence their treatment of my son?_ He carefully considered this. For the last thirty-three point six years, his son had been a member of Starfleet. Intellectually gifted, particularly in the sciences and with computers, his son had advanced rapidly, rising to the rank of commander in thirteen point four years and garnering a position as second-in-command of the flagship of Starfleet's twelve starships.

He'd actually been aboard her once – in his capacity as Vulcan Ambassador – and had seen first hand the respect and genuine affection afforded to his son by the majority of the crew. Could he learn a lesson from that? Should he learn a lesson from that? Had he grown so old and inflexible that the principles of IDIC no longer came into play?

At first, he'd been appalled at his son's choice of friends. Mere humans. But over the past week, they'd proven themselves to be of exceptional character. All had risked their careers, and his son's closest friends had risked so much more: The one carrying his son's katra had risked insanity by housing his son's essence within the confines of his own mind. And the other had sacrificed the irreplaceable: the death of the man's own son, the destruction of his ship, and as the orchestrator of this unconventional rescue mission he had surely sounded the death knell for his own chances at a future command. And yet, when he'd mentioned these very things to the man, the answer had been simple, and so typically human: "If I hadn't tried, the cost would have been my soul."

Was it possible that these so-called friends understood his own son better than he did? Years ago he'd admonished his son for choosing Starfleet over the Vulcan Science Academy, convinced the boy had made a terrible mistake. But was he, in fact, the one who had erred? Hadn't learned to trust the judgment of his adult child? Hadn't been willing to let the boy forge his own path through life? If it weren't for these colleagues, these associates, these _friends_ of his son, the boy would surely be lost to him now. Not only would his body have perished, but the essence of who he was would have disappeared into the ether as well.

Yes, he owed these people a huge debt of gratitude, and he would begin to repay it by resolving to better understand and appreciate his son.


	42. Trek Tech

A/N: The prompt was to show how the technology of the future influences our characters, for good or bad. Needless to say, McCoy sprang instantly to mind. ;-) The idea is a fleshed-out version of one of the drabbles in chapter six.

**Trek Tech**

_Damn!_ He'd been so excited that, for once, he wouldn't have to have his atoms scattered to the four winds and then reassembled in what he hoped was a reasonable facsimile of his former self. For this landing party duty it had been determined that they'd need to take a shuttlecraft. An unknown inert gas in the planet's atmosphere simply reflected the transporter beams, effectively rendering the device useless.

At least he had been thrilled until thirty seconds ago. Not a pilot and totally unfamiliar with the techniques for navigating a small craft, the screech of alarms had first alerted him to the fact that there was a problem. That, combined with the sudden change in pitch, had nearly caused him to lose his seat, not to mention his lunch.

"What the hell's wrong with this boat?" he had bellowed, but the question was lost in the deafening roar as the craft's navigation console exploded in a shower of sparks. Only the Vulcan managed to remain in his seat at the helm as his co-pilot was tossed aside like so much flotsam and jetsam.

"Brace for impact!" were the last words he heard before the world went dark.

oooOOOooo

He couldn't breathe. Pushing himself to an upright position he tried to clamber to his feet but a sharp pain in his right leg brought a halt to that notion. He squinted, trying to see something – _anything_ – through the thick, black smoke filling the confined space.

"Spock?" he called, the word ending in a paroxysm of coughing. He tried again. "Andreyo? Knowles? Chowdiah? Is anyone there?"

"I am here, Doctor," a voiced rasped. It belonged to the first officer. He heard footsteps approaching; felt a heavy weight lifted off his leg. Strong hands seized him under the armpits; tugged him to his feet.

"No," he argued, trying to shrug off the support. "Help the others first."

"I have already retrieved the other members of the crew. You are the last," Spock assured him, one arm looped about the doctor's waist as they made for the door to the tiny craft. "We must hurry," the Vulcan urged, steering him toward the bright ray of light cleaving through the darkness. He leaned heavily on the Vulcan, holding up the injured leg and hobbling on the other.

Spock helped him through the damaged exit, supported him as they beat as hasty a retreat as they could muster from the twisted wreckage of their vessel. They collapsed among the remainder of the crew, stretched out thirty meters from the craft as it burst into flames, burning bits of plastic and fabric raining down from above.

Instinct took over as McCoy's eyes and gentle hands began roaming over the other three injured crewmen. Sadly, Lieutenant Andreyo was already dead. He had been sitting in the co-pilot's seat. Severe burns and lacerations covered a good portion of his body. McCoy felt for a carotid pulse; found none.

Closing the lifeless eyes, he switched his focus to Yeoman Chowdiah. She had been sitting directly behind Andreyo and while her external burns weren't as severe as his had been, her labored breathing and the dark streaks around her mouth and nose attested to the fact that she had inhaled a good portion of the toxic smoke given off when the instrument panel blew up.

He swatted at his hip; was distressed to discover that his medikit was no longer there. "Spock, do we have any medical supplies?" he asked, glancing over at the Vulcan. Spock was bent over the third injured crewman, Ensign Knowles from security. The first officer had removed his blue uniform shirt and was pressing the wadded-up article of clothing into a deep abdominal wound in an effort to keep the man from exsanguinating. McCoy did his best to keep his features neutral as Spock turned his head, meeting the doctor's eyes. He noticed the same tell-tale black smudges on the first officer's face; only now became aware of the harsh wheeze that accompanied each breath drawn by the Vulcan. McCoy quickly assessed his own lungs. They hurt when he breathed, but not terribly so. He'd been seated behind Spock, nearest to the door. He'd been on the floor while unconscious – the best place to be to avoid the destructive smoke, and a good bit of the fumes must have cleared when the Vulcan opened the hatch. He'd been lucky.

Spock's voice returned his focus to the present. "Negative. My goal was to remove all personnel first. Once the craft became engulfed in flames they prevented me from retrieving any additional items."

"She's suffering from chemical burns to her lungs," McCoy announced, his gaze flicking briefly to the injured woman before returning to Spock. "There's nothing I can do for her without medication. And it's not like we can use a tourniquet to control Knowles' bleeding." McCoy chewed his lip in consternation. "Do you have a communicator?" he asked at last. "Is there any chance we can contact the ship?"

"Negative," came the defeated reply.

"Can't they beam us up? Surely they'll be looking for us?"

"As the transporter was unable to penetrate the atmosphere in order for us to beam down, it is only logical to assume that the reverse is also true – that the ship would be unable to lock onto us and beam us aboard," the first officer supplied, his voice weak, the words forced out in an unnatural cadence.

"Then surely they're searching for us. Once we lost contact with the ship Jim would've immediately mounted a rescue mission."

"Affirmative, but we were seventy-five point two kilometers off course. The atmosphere reflected our scans as well, hence the need to assess the surface visually," the Vulcan responded in a hoarse whisper.

"But once the shuttles get below the upper levels of the atmosphere they _can_ scan for us, right?"

"The scanners were functioning on our shuttle. The hindrance will be that initially they will be scanning in the wrong location. It will be necessary to initiate a search pattern, beginning from the coordinates where we intended to touch down and radiating outward in ever-increasing concentric circles. At best, I estimate it will take the rescue party one point seven hours to locate us."

"Then these people aren't gonna make it, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it," McCoy stated grimly.

"So it would seem," the Vulcan replied quietly, intent on his efforts to staunch the flow of blood from Knowles.

McCoy turned his attention back to the young woman. She was semi-conscious now and obviously in pain. He grasped her hand, gently caressing her cheek with the other.

"It's okay, Yeoman. We're here with you. You'll be fine," he assured her with much more confidence than he felt.

"Doctor, I can't breathe. Help me, please," she pleaded.

McCoy felt tears prick his eyes. What he wouldn't give for one functioning hypo, or to feel the familiar tingle of the transporter, despite his widely-known distaste for the device. He squeezed her hand tenderly. "I know. Here, let me give you something to help with that," he said. Hurriedly his eyes scoured the ground beside him, settling on a small stick. He grasped it, pressing the end to her arm, knowing she couldn't see what was in his hand. "This is a powerful broncho-dilator," he informed her. "It'll take a few minutes to start working, so you just relax and let the medicine do its job."

She nodded, closing her eyes. McCoy watched in awe as her distress seemed to ease somewhat. Her grip on his hand relaxed ever-so-slightly. _Who says there's nothing to the placebo effect,_ he mused silently, _but will it be enough to get her through till they find us?_ he fretted. He was snapped out of these thoughts by a thud. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that Spock had collapsed.

"Yeoman," he said, gently extricating his hand from hers, "I have to check on Ensign Knowles and Mister Spock. I'll be right back, okay?"

"Okay, sir," she whispered, eyes still squeezed shut.

He dragged himself over to where Spock lay crumpled beside Knowles. It was then that he noticed the waxen pallor to the Vulcan's skin, his breathing rapid and shallow, a green stain spreading down the first officer's arm and chest from a jagged laceration now visible through a rent in the black fabric at his shoulder. McCoy peeled off his tunic, tearing a strip of cloth from the bottom and bandaging the injury as best he could. When he was finished he glanced at Knowles. The abdominal wound still oozed intermittently, but the chest no longer rose and fell. He was gone.

_Oh God, _the doctor breathed silently. _Please let me find a way to help them. Don't let anyone else die on my watch. _A strangled cry erupted from Chowdiah, rousing McCoy from his momentary despair. She was choking; drowning in fluid. He dragged himself back to her, ignoring the pain in his leg. He rolled her onto her side, but after one hitched breath she drew no more. The damage to her lungs had been too severe.

_Damn it!_ He cursed silently. _If only I had the proper equipment I could have saved her._ Sliding back over to the Vulcan he eased the man onto his back; drew the dark head into his lap. The first officer's breath was now coming in harsh, irregular gasps. Blood had already soaked through the makeshift bandage on his shoulder. McCoy added the pressure of his hand to the saturated dressing. "Don't you dare die on me, too you green-blooded son of a bitch," the doctor railed angrily, glancing skyward. He strained his ears to catch even the slightest sound of engines. As much as he was generally at odds with technology, at present it represented his only hope.


	43. Paint a Scene

A/N: This week's prompt was to describe a scene. Initially I misread the prompt, thinking it was _any_ scene, where it was supposed to be of a world or location. I may do another one to correct my error, but this was the descriptive scene that sprang to mind initially.

Once again, the major players have not been identified by name, but it is my hope that through context their identities become clear.

**Paint a Scene**

The sweat was dripping off her. Her hair was damp, adhering to her forehead in sticky clumps. She fought to catch her breath; bask in the brief respite before the next onslaught began.

She could hear the incessant lub-dub of a machine, the cadence rapid, strong, constant. In spite of her current discomfort she allowed herself a small, secret grin. It meant all was well.

She felt a familiar presence in her mind. _You are doing well, my wife,_ it assured her. _Even though I am not permitted to be with you physically at the moment, know that I am with you in spirit. Draw what strength you need from me._

Suddenly that was gone, too, replaced by searing white-hot pain. Every muscle was stretched taut as she writhed in agony. It felt as if her body was being turned inside out. Despite wanting to scream at the top of her lungs, she bit her tongue, clamped her lips tightly shut against the incoherent sounds that threatened to spill forth. This may not be her world, her culture, but she had agreed to live in it and would do her best, in spite of the circumstances, to live up to that commitment.

Normally she would not be made to suffer so, but the healers had been hesitant to use any form of chemical methods of blocking the pain due to her alien physiology. She was the test case – the first one on the planet to be in this situation – and it was unknown what effect, if any, drugs suitable to her biology would have on the tiny being she carried within.

A cool, moist cloth mopped at her brow, offering a momentary reprieve from her ordeal. As quickly as the pain had appeared, it now subsided, nothing more than a distant memory. She collapsed against the damp pillow behind her, closing her eyes to shut out the bright glare from the lights above.

"You are doing well, my Lady," a female voice whispered in her ear, not confined to her mind this time. _You could've fooled me,_ she thought to herself, chest heaving. Slowly she opened her eyes, offered a look of gratitude to the woman bending over her. But the other was no longer focused on her, the woman's gaze intent on the press of people at the opposite end of the bed. While the woman's features did not display her dismay, alarm was clearly visible in her eyes.

She was gripped by paralyzing fear, much stronger and more severe than any pain she had been experiencing over the last three hours. "What's wrong?" she heard herself ask, feeling the blood drain from her face, abruptly cold in the room that had felt like the inside of a blast furnace only moments before.

Suddenly there was a flurry of motion as people began scattering. She heard the tinkle of metal, the squelch of rubber on smooth tile as carts were wheeled into position, the rustling of fabric as those present donned thin, pale blue robes. Normally calm, serene voices grew tense, tight, revealing an undercurrent of heightened urgency. "She is losing too much blood," the man in charge declared, the words reaching her ears as if traveling over a great distance. "We must take the child now if both are to survive."

Panic seized her. "Please, help my baby!" she wailed, unable to keep a tear from sliding down her cheek as the circle of her vision became ever smaller, faded slowly to black, the disembodied voices gradually following suit, disappearing as she sank into oblivion.

oooOOOooo

Muffled voices disturbed her; pulled her from the black depths of unspeakable pain and abject terror that had marked her previous reality. Eyes still closed, she struggled to make sense of where she was. Here the air smelled fresher, cooler; wasn't tainted by oppressive heat and the austere sterility of her last conscious memory. The bed beneath her was soft and cool, the sheets crisp, the blanket enveloping her in a cocoon of warmth, but she knew without a doubt it wasn't _her_ bed.

The voices grew stronger, more distinct, until words and then phrases began to coalesce out of the inky depths.

"What of my wife?" a familiar voice asked, wavering uncharacteristically.

"She will survive, of that we are certain. Extensive damage was done to her uterus when the placenta tore loose, but we were able to repair it." The voice stopped. An ominous silence hung over the room, as still and quiet as death. A question formed in her mind, but was unable to make the journey to her lips.

"And the child?" the familiar voice asked next, expressing that which she could not.

"Your son is healthy and strong, unaffected by the trauma of his birth. However, he will be your last child. It will be extremely dangerous for your wife to carry any more children."

The men stopped speaking as a door was opened, muffled footsteps following shortly thereafter. "Forgive the intrusion," a female voice offered apologetically. "Ambassador, your son," it said, a rustling sound and soft grunts of protest filling the room as the newborn was transferred to the arms of his father. "Have you chosen a name for him yet?" she asked after a brief pause.

"He is to be called Spock," her husband announced immediately, "a name that appeared briefly in our family line several millennia ago. It was a favorite of my wife's," he added as an afterthought.

The babe let loose a contented sigh, as if offering his approval of the choice. She smiled to herself, now having irrefutable corroboration of the healer's earlier words. Her son was safe, and whole. These were the thoughts that lulled her into an exhausted sleep.

oooOOOooo

A/N: I realize this differs from the scene in ST:V, but I always maintained that Spock would not have such vivid memories of the instant of his birth. To my mind, what was portrayed in ST:V represented Sybok imposing what he believed were Spock's thoughts/impressions of the moment combined with Spock's insecurities about his human half.


	44. Smackdown

A/N: The prompt this week was Smackdown. I chose to do a figurative approach to the topic. Again, none of the major players are identified until the very end (are we noticing a trend here?). I'm hoping who they are will become clear through context.

**Smackdown**

He was dying inside. It wasn't supposed to be like this. In his wildest dreams he'd never imagined it would be like this. He glanced across the room. She had walked away from him. Dropped that goddamned bombshell in his lap and then walked away. Was she angry, sad, elated, depressed—he couldn't be sure which. Perhaps all, and none. No surprise there; at the moment he couldn't explain what he was feeling, either. It was like he had suddenly gone numb. He'd heard the words but they still didn't register, not fully; not the way they should. What was he supposed to do? Since he'd been in his early teens he'd always known instinctively what to do, what to say in any given situation. But that gift was failing him now. And they were both suffering because of it.

He closed the distance between them, gently grasping her shoulders. She shrugged him off, again putting a few steps between them, refusing to turn and meet his eyes, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Was she trying to keep it all in? To keep him out? Did it really matter?

"I'm sorry," he murmured finally, allowing her her space this time.

A sound escaped from her; something between a chuckle and a sob. He watched as she brushed at her face, waiting for her to say something – _anything._

"Please, tell me what you want me to do," he asked at last, surprised by the quiver of desperation in his voice. He had to make this right somehow.

She whirled on him then, the anger radiating off her in thick waves. "That's not fair! I can't make that choice for you. All your life you've worked toward one goal. This changes nothing, and I will not be the one who stands in your way! Maybe not now, but at some point you'd never forgive me. I couldn't live with that, and you shouldn't ask me to." The anger abruptly gave way to sadness. Once again she dropped her eyes from his, hurriedly swiping at her cheek.

He approached her again, gently drawing her to him. This time she allowed it, her arms slipping around his waist, gripping tightly, her head dropping to his shoulder. She collapsed against him, almost as if she couldn't bear the strain any longer. "That's where you're wrong," he assured her, gently pressing his lips to the top of her head. "This changes everything."

"Yes. Yes it does," she mumbled against his chest, "but not how you think. You'll be shipping out again in a month, but for how long this time—six months, a year? How can I possibly count on that; count on you to be here when I need you? When _we _need you?"

"Then I won't go. I don't have to. There are other options," he offered desperately, but knew deep down he was just plying her with platitudes. "I want to be here for you. I _need_ to be here for you. For both of you."

She disentangled herself from him; favored him with a look that bordered on pity. It sent a chill that nestled itself firmly in the core of his being. He tried to shrug it off; found that he couldn't. "You may think so now. You may even think so a year from now. But there will come a time when you regret that decision, and it'll make you resent me, resent _us._ I refuse to let us be put in that position by you or anyone else."

It was what had drawn him to her in the first place: that fire, that spark of independence, that 'take no prisoners' attitude. Now all it was doing was forcing them further apart. "I love you. That's all that matters," he pleaded, only wanting to erase the hurt from her eyes; to quell the sickening feeling that was making it nearly impossible for him to think straight at the moment.

She grabbed his hand; squeezed gently. "I know you do, but is it enough?" she asked softly, searching his face. "The question is: what do you love more?" Her eyes had become bleak, empty, a portal into her overwhelming sorrow. "I think we both know the answer to that."

"Do you really think so little of me?" he countered vehemently. "I thought we meant more to each other than that. Please don't shut me out. We can make this the best thing that's happened to either of us."

She scoffed openly. "And how do you propose to do that, when you're hundreds of light years away?" A beat. "And gone more often than you'll be here? What's your plan—to send me a few credits and a tape every now and then, and think that it will somehow make up for your absence; that by doing so, you'll have fulfilled your responsibility? Will that make things better for me—for _us_—or just be a way for you to ease your guilt? Trust me, I don't need that kind of support."

He was angry now, the words thick and heavy in his throat. "What do you want from me, Carol?" he ground out.

The answer left him weak in the knees; gasping for breath. "I want you to stay away."


	45. Sexytimes

A/N: The prompt this week was Sexytimes. Not what or how I write as a rule, but I tried to think outside the box and put together something that would fit within the parameters. This gets a solid T rating for suggestive situations, but doesn't contain anything explicit.

**Sexytimes**

He could not believe his good fortune; walking along with her, hand in hand in the chill night air rich with the briny scent of the ocean carried aloft on the wind. It was certainly not how he'd expected this day to end. They were lab partners, and had spent the better part of the day in the library, working on their final project.

It had been on a whim that he suggested grabbing a bite to eat somewhere, and then taking in a holofilm. It had been an extremely productive day, and they deserved it after all, he'd argued. When she'd agreed, he'd about swallowed his tongue. He'd been trying to find an excuse all semester to get her alone; engrossed in something besides class, and research, and lab reports. Truth be told, from day one he'd wanted her to focus solely on him; grant him her undivided attention.

Now was his chance. For once, she seemed as into him as he was into her. At dinner she'd been positively coy, and during the holo, emboldened by earlier events, he had settled an arm around her shoulder. She'd snuggled down into him without missing a beat, head resting against his chest, his nostrils filled with the intoxicating scent of her floral shampoo. As they left the theater she'd slipped her hand into his and suggested coffee at her place – the least she could do for him walking her home. He read between the lines, his thoughts traveling at warp speed as he anticipated the escapades that were sure to come later.

Once in her room she busied herself digging in the cabinets for mugs, standing on her tiptoes. That had only highlighted her sexy, muscular calves—clearly on display thanks to the short skirt she was wearing, and the voluptuous curve of her toned backside.

He came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. He nibbled delicately on her neck, an ear, pressing himself close to that perfect tush, leaving no doubt as to the effect she was having on him.

"Jim, what are you doing?" she asked, not fearfully, not angrily. She seemed genuinely nonplussed by his actions.

He stopped immediately, turning her to face him. "I'm sorry," he whispered, holding her at arm's length now. "I thought this was what you wanted." _Had he misread her somehow?_

"No. _I'm _sorry," she stated emphatically, "for I don't think _you_ understand."

"What's there to understand?" he countered, bitterness and a hint of disappointment seeping into his tone. "I thought you found me as attractive as I find you. Obviously I was mistaken."

"Oh, Jim," she said, cupping a hand to his cheek, "you don't get it at all, do you?"

He shied away from her touch, her fingers leaving warm trails on his skin and causing heat of a different kind elsewhere. "I should go," he said, heading for the door, no longer willing to play this game. She was toying with him, teasing him, and he found he didn't have the stomach for it. But as he tried to brush past her, suddenly she was in front of him, a soft, delicate hand pressed to his chest, moist lips covering his own. Again, he couldn't stop himself from responding, his hand finding its way into her soft, flowing tresses, his mouth eagerly, hungrily devouring hers.

"That's where you're wrong, Jim," she murmured into his shoulder after breaking the kiss. "I find you more attractive than I should. You touch me in ways that I never imagined I could feel, but I fear I can't give you what you so obviously want; perform in the manner you're accustomed to."

He just stared at her, slack-jawed, unable to respond. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did she already have a boyfriend? A girlfriend? Was she one of those races sworn to celibacy in the presence of humans, like Deltans? He knew she wasn't human—the pale, seafoam-green skin was a dead giveaway—but the details of her background had never come up. If hooking up with humans was verboten by her culture, then why was she leading him on like this? She was the one who invited him here, after all. If she wasn't looking for more she could have sent him on his way once he escorted her to her dorm. She turned violet eyes on him, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe. "Why?" he asked finally, his voice hoarse. He searched her face, torn by indecision.

"You really don't know, do you?"

He simply shook his head, unwilling to trust himself to speak.

"I'm not half Orion like many of our classmates think. I'm a Phytosian. Do you know what that means?"

The name rang a bell, but one he couldn't put his finger on. He knew he should have paid more attention in xenobiology class. Again, he gave a negative shake of his head.

"Despite my appearance, my people are not mammals. Our DNA is more closely aligned with plants than animals."

He was still lost.

"My people don't reproduce like humans do. We use a form of cross-pollination. Sex, as it is known to you, is impossible for us. We lack the external genitalia inherent to your species."

He felt his face flush, his eyes widen, his mouth forming into a small 'oh' shape.

"I thought you knew," she continued, genuine concern and apology visible in those amazing eyes.

"Of course I did," he lied smoothly, evenly. "That doesn't take away from the fact that I had a wonderful time tonight, that I think you're beautiful. I expressed that in the only way I know how."

"And I appreciate that. I'm touched by it, in fact, but that doesn't change the fact that our species are sexually incompatible. Trust me, I'd give anything if it were otherwise," she confessed, her concern melting into wistfulness. "Now that we have that cleared up, I can still make you some coffee if you want." She ran a hand up and down his arm, her touch once again causing electricity to pulse through his body, the current finally settling somewhere below his waist.

"Thank you, but no. It's getting late and I have class at 08:00 in the morning. I really should go." _Before I embarrass myself any further_ he added silently.

Her face fell at that. "Then I won't keep you. Friends?" she asked after a momentary pause, a shy grin only serving to enhance her beauty.

It wasn't fair – how could looks and a body like that be wasted on a race that didn't have sex?

"Friends," he said, grasping her hand and giving it a firm shake. "I'll see you in class tomorrow." She walked him to the door, closing it softly behind him. His last image of her was that melancholy, yearning smile. He leaned his head against the door, eyes closed, trying to get himself under control. Once he got back to his own room he'd need a cold shower; a _very_ cold one, at that.


	46. Secrets

A/N: The prompt this week was 'Secrets,' and it got me thinking. I saw the new movie a week ago and have been struggling to reconcile what was contained within. It seems this free write has given me the venue to do so. This post contains serious spoilers for the new movie. If you haven't seen it, and don't want the ending to be compromised, please don't read any further.

I've done quite a bit of thinking over the last week, and have watched the new death scene on youtube more times than I care to admit. And I had an epiphany: While the friendship between Kirk and Spock developed slowly over time in the Prime Universe, this was not the case in the JJverse. nuKirk had a unique rapport with Spock Prime. One can only assume elements of the legendary friendship were transferred to him during the mind meld on Delta Vega. He knew, and fully understood, the potential that was he and Spock together. While Spock Prime hinted at this to nuSpock, he was stubborn, and refused to acknowledge or foster it; allowed himself to deny that which was right in front of his eyes all along. It took Kirk's death for nuSpock to grasp the significance of that potential which had been alluded to, and to admit to himself that despite Kirk's human flaws, despite his arrogance and lack of humility, Spock was meant to temper that aspect of Jim Kirk's personality. That he was meant to walk the path of life at Jim Kirk's side. This shows the steps nuSpock took to come to that understanding; to admit to that secret, and to realize that Kirk was no longer the brash, arrogant youth who thought he could do no wrong, but that the captain had grown into the man he was destined to become.

This is my first real foray into the JJverse.

**Secrets**

"The purpose of the test is to experience fear. Fear in the face of certain death. To accept that fear and maintain control of one's self and one's crew. This is a quality expected in every Starfleet captain." At the time he had said those words, Spock had accused the then headstrong cadet of failing to understand the purpose behind the Kobayashi Maru test and the dilemma that was the no-win scenario. While serving as Kirk's First Officer over the course of the last year, Spock had no reason to believe that lesson had been learned, or that that aspect of the young captain's psyche even existed, but that had all changed one solar week ago.

He was seated next to Kirk's hospital bed. His captain remained in a coma, the state his body had entered once his heart had begun beating again. Doctor McCoy was still unsure as to whether or not he would recover. Kirk's body lived, brought back from the finality of death by using the blood they had harvested from the genetically enhanced superhuman Khan. It was a gamble the doctor had taken in an attempt to repair the damage done to Kirk's organs and cells by the intense, lethal radiation that had bombarded the young captain in the warp core. They were now in uncharted territory. Only time would tell if the unorthodox procedure would work; if the essence of the man they knew as James T. Kirk would indeed return from the dead with his mind intact.

As he glanced at his superior officer, images from that fateful day in the reactor room continued to haunt him. Seeing the once fit and vibrant Kirk crumpled on the floor beside the door to the containment chamber, vulnerable, dying, had taken its toll, but it was the words that had passed between them that left Spock adrift and floundering; words that resonated disconcertingly deep down in places he could not name. Places within him that heretofore had remained untouched by anything or anyone.

"How's our ship?" Kirk had whispered, his breath rattling in and out of him, doing his best to focus his eyes on Spock's.

"Out of danger. You saved the crew."

"And you used what he wanted against him." The shadow of his trademark grin tugged at Kirk's lips. "That's a nice move."

"It is what you would have done."

"And this…this is what _you_ would have done. It was only logical."

Spock had not trusted himself to answer.

Kirk's face had changed, the blue eyes boring into his, now registering something in addition to physical pain. "I'm scared, Spock." A pause as the man on the other side of the clear barrier attempted to gather himself. "Help me not be."

In the year they had served together, Spock had never seen, let alone heard Kirk admit to fear of any kind. Hearing that admission now, seeing Kirk helpless, in distress, out of options—threatened to undo him for reasons he could not fathom.

"How do you choose not to feel?" his captain had asked, the panic and uncertainty he had taken such pains to hide in the past clearly on display. The cockiness of old had vanished without a trace. A single tear slipped from an eye, traced a track along Kirk's nose.

"I do not know," Spock heard himself answer in a voice that was none-too-steady. "Right now I am failing." In that instant Spock realized that Kirk had in fact learned the lesson of the Kobayashi Maru; that he was human, and fallible, and his captain had finally come to understand this about himself. It was the element that had been missing all along. The element Captain Pike had fought so hard to bring forth, and nurture. _"I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I only know what I _can _do."_ This frank admission on the captain's part represented the humility and maturity James Kirk had been lacking until now. The final piece of the puzzle that would temper the unabashed self-assuredness he had exhibited in the past. What would allow him to become the exceptional commander he was destined to be.

Now that destiny would remain unfulfilled. Khan had seen to that. Spock felt unmitigated anger rise within him, no amount of Vulcan discipline or emotional control able to quell the raging tide.

"I want you to know why I couldn't let you die," his captain continued, struggling to get the words out. "Why I went back for you."

And yet, that secret had already been revealed too, only Spock had been too stubborn, too short-sighted to admit it. Up till now, the Vulcan had chosen to ignore it. "Because you are my friend," Spock said, a tear spilling from his eye as well. He could no longer deny that friendship, that closeness to which his older self had alluded. Again, this potential would remain unfulfilled; a destiny that would go unrealized. They were running out of time. Kirk placed his hand against the clear barrier, a gesture Spock mirrored, reaching for fingers he could not touch. Kirk's eyes met his once again, and with a final sigh, the hand fell away. All movement from within the reactor chamber ceased. Kirk was dead.

Spock's thoughts snapped back to the present; focused on the man in the bed before him. If in fact they were given a second chance, Spock vowed that he would not squander it. From this moment forth he would do whatever it took to protect his captain…his friend, and cultivate the unique rapport they were destined to share.


	47. Sweetness

A/N: This is my second offering for this week's free write. The first became chapter six of 'Childhood's End.' Once again, I've taken some poetic license with the prompt—thought outside the box if you will—not recalling a sweet moment, but showing how the ultimate low can quickly morph into the ultimate high, given the right set of circumstances, and with the love and support of those around you.

In this instance as well, this is based on the JJverse and the new movie, so read at your own risk.

**Sweetness**

"_I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I only know what I _can _do."_ Those were the words that had echoed through his skull on his headlong flight to engineering; had sent icy fingers of dread running through him, like razor-sharp shards of glass tearing mercilessly at his flesh. He knew firsthand of his captain's capacity for recklessness, for disregarding protocol and logic and doing what he deemed right and necessary, conventional wisdom—or orders to the contrary—be damned.

Despite understanding clearly what Kirk must have done to get the warp core back on line, he had fervently wished for the best but anticipated the worst. Unfortunately, the latter had been reality. Intellectually, he had been prepared for that.

He had not been prepared for the emotional toll Kirk's death had taken on him. The loss of the man that in those few harrowing, gut-wrenching minutes he had come to understand was more than just his superior officer—Jim was also his friend.

On that garbage scow he'd wanted to deprive Khan of his life, just as Khan had deprived Jim of his life; wanted to beat that life out of the murderous criminal with his bare hands. It was not logical, but it was true. All rational thought had fled and he'd been unsure if it was the primitive Vulcan half or the primitive human half that had taken control in that instant. Not that it mattered. For all intents and purposes, their goals had been one and the same. Only Uhura's pleas for him to stop, her shocking revelation that they might somehow be able to use Khan to save Kirk had caused him not to follow the irrational impulse to its inevitable conclusion.

This marked the second time in a year Kirk had been able to evoke a violent, emotional response from him—an unprecedented feat no other had ever managed to achieve since Spock had left the impetuousness of childhood behind him. The first time it had been with his words. This time, with his actions—actions that exhibited tremendous personal growth and an unwavering ability for self-sacrifice in the face of certain death. Actions that made Spock reevaluate Kirk's capacity and fitness for command—a fitness Spock had openly questioned until now.

He opened his eyes, focusing once more on the figure asleep on the bed before him, alive, whole, _breathing_, and again silently thanked God, Fate, McCoy, Khan—whoever was ultimately responsible—for returning this man to him.

McCoy had left hours ago, urging Spock to do the same—"He'll be asleep until morning, Spock, I made sure of that. Go home. Get some rest. He's in good hands here."—but the Vulcan could not bring himself to leave Jim here alone. _"I'm scared, Spock. Help me not be,"_ Jim had begged as he lay dying in the reactor chamber. In that instant, Spock had regretted that he would never again be at Jim's side, be there to offer physical protection and silent emotional support to the man he now thought of as a friend. Unbelievably, he had been given a second chance to do so, and would not waver from that which he now saw as his duty, his métier in life.

His captain had been unconscious and in a coma for two weeks. While his body lived during that time, there had been no way to tell if the essence that made up the unique personality that was Jim Kirk had survived.

Earlier today, Jim had finally awoken, and spoken, and Spock had realized with a jolt and a profound sense of relief that despite his earlier statement to the contrary, miracles do, in fact, exist.

He and his captain had exchanged pleasantries, and thanks, and something more. A tacit understanding had passed between them—an understanding of what and who they were, with respect to the other.

It had been an electrifying moment for Spock. He now knew beyond a shadow of a doubt where he belonged in this world—not just in Starfleet, not just on the _Enterprise_, but at Jim Kirk's side. At last the universe made sense, and he was at home, finally at peace with it for the first time in his life.


	48. In Your Dreams

A/N: This is my second entry for this week. The first became the story 'Turning the Tables.' Definitely firmly in the T rating, for sexual situations.

**In Your Dreams**

She could still taste him; feel his lips on hers; feel the goose bumps his touch left on her skin as he had caressed her breasts; feel the heat of his passion for her throbbing between her legs, filling her. She relived their moment of shared ecstasy, her body tingling at the memory. It couldn't be real. She must be dreaming.

And yet, her fingers raked through the coarse hair on the chest rising and falling beneath her head. A warmer-than-human hand was draped across her naked buttocks. She propped herself up on an elbow, careful not to disturb him, studying the man sleeping beside her.

Yes, he was here with her, but it wasn't really _him_. This was nothing more than a cheat—a very convincing, very pleasant one, but a cheat nonetheless. She felt dirty, as if she had betrayed something that had once been pure and beautiful. Tarnished it beyond repair. She slipped quietly from the bed; moved to stand in the puddle of moonlight pouring in through the large window. Right now, she hated herself. Hated herself for wanting this, for dreaming of this, and for giving in to this. Hated herself for her weakness. A tear slipped from her eye.

Warm hands grasped her from behind. Strong, slender-yet-muscular arms encircled her waist. A furry chest molded itself to her back. Soft lips nuzzled her neck, her ear. The evidence of his desire for her pressed insistently against the soft flesh of her backside. She couldn't stop the stifled sob that escaped her lips. _Be careful what you wish for._

Gentle hands turned her to face him. Concerned, brown eyes searched her anguished blue ones. "What is wrong?" he asked in that deep, familiar voice she loved so much. "Is this not what you wanted? Have I not performed adequately? Have I displeased you in some way?"

"No. Everything was just as I imagined it would be. And that's the crux of the problem. This is all a product of my imagination."

"Yes," he admitted frankly, a slight frown turning down the corners of his mouth. "Or you can view it simply as two people expressing their feelings for one another—for that is surely what it was."

A bitter laugh was torn from her throat. "Except your feelings aren't real. They were gleaned from my mind. The physical consummation of my hopes and dreams, my most private, intimate fantasies, superimposed on you."

"Is that so wrong?" he countered, genuinely confused. "This has been a pleasant experience for you, has it not?" A slanted eyebrow traveled upward toward sleek black bangs. "That is the express purpose of this planet—to provide all who come here the fulfillment of their innermost wants and desires. One only has to think of what one wants, and it will instantly be manufactured. Our only goal is to help others experience that which they otherwise might not. Was this not your intention when you agreed to take shore leave here? Was the nature of our 'amusement park' planet not adequately explained to you beforehand?"

"No. I mean, yes," she quickly amended. "I knew full well what I was getting into. How my love for you would manifest itself here. Now that I know Roger is dead, there's nothing left to keep those feelings in check. I wanted this—desperately. All that mattered to me was being able to have this experience. But now I'm realizing that was a huge mistake; that it doesn't mean anything if the feelings aren't reciprocated."

"And why do you believe they are not?" he inquired simply, tugging her close, pressing their bodies together. His lips sought out hers, planting a tender, lingering kiss there.

She broke the kiss, pushing him away, hating herself for the innumerable sensations it stirred within her. She fought to suppress them. _It's not real. _"Then answer me this—do you love me?" she asked quietly, the pain and sting of regret, of the rejection she knew would be forthcoming, leaching into her words.

A frown of consternation creased the alien brow as he searched for a response. "No. I do not," he replied finally.

"And why do you suppose that is?" she pressed.

"Because I do not see that in your mind. You fervently wish it to be so, but do not believe it to be true, thus I cannot answer in the affirmative."

She stepped away from him, gathering her clothes and beginning to dress. "And that's why this is wrong; why I should never have come down here. Someday, if he and I do share this type of intimacy, I want it to be because we both have feelings for one another, not because I had some aliens pick my brain on a pleasure planet."

"This experience is wholly yours. You can make it whatever you wish it to be. If you want me to love you, you only have to dream it and it will be so."

_And yet, it won't, not really. _"What I want is for it to be over. I'm sorry. It was a mistake for me to come here. Imagining he loves me is not the same as him actually loving me. That must be his choice, and his alone. I can only wait, and hope."

He closed the distance between them, gently grasping her shoulders. "Please don't go, I need you, Christine." He leaned toward her…

"Christine, wake up, I need you."

She started violently. It took several long seconds to process where she was. The walls of sickbay gradually came into focus. She was seated at the desk in the treatment room. A hand was on her shoulder, gently shaking it. She glanced up into the face of her immediate superior, struggling to wrest herself from the last vestiges of the dream. "I'm so sorry, Doctor. I was just finishing the reports on our last patients, and must have dozed off."

"And you must have been having some dream. I almost hated to wake you," he said cryptically, eyes alight with mischief. Her cheeks were suddenly on fire. _Oh my God! Did he know? Had she said something aloud?_ She simply stared at him, searching for a coherent reply, wishing she were anywhere but here at the moment.

"Don't worry, it happens to the best of us," he said, grinning at her. "Truth be told, I was cat-napping myself. I know it's been an extra-long shift, what with the majority of the staff being down on the planet enjoying shore leave, but I just got a call from the transporter room. Ensign McElheny took a nasty fall while rock climbing, and probably has a broken wrist. She'll be here any minute."

Suddenly, McCoy's expression changed. "You look tired, Nurse. I appreciate that you volunteered to stay and help me man sickbay so the rest of the staff could have some time off—Lord knows they all needed it—but most of them are due back tomorrow. Are you sure you don't want to beam down to the surface with the next shore leave party? I can manage without you for a few hours, and we'll be leaving for our next assignment in two days. The R&R would do you good. It's really a beautiful planet, and the race who built it can provide you with anything your heart desires. It could be your best shore leave ever," he said, eyes now far away, processing a memory only he could see. The grin returned. "I know I thoroughly enjoyed my time down there."

Her mind flashed to the dream. No, she definitely wouldn't be going down. She'd already seen how that could spell disaster with a capital D. Someday, if by some miracle she and the first officer did get together, that was the memory she wanted, not the artificial one she'd be creating by succumbing to temptation.

oooOOOooo

A/N: Based on the TOS episode 'Shore Leave.'


	49. For the Hundredth Time

A/N: The prompt for this week was 'For the Hundredth Time, in honor of 100 weeks of free writes. We were to use that as the first line for this short. Hell if I know where this came from...

**For the Hundredth Time**

"Fascinating."

"For the hundredth time, so help me God, if you say that one more time, when this is over I'll slap you into next week, Spock." The doctor was positively livid. "It'll be worth the time in the brig," he interjected under his breath. "Just use those mathematically perfect brainwaves of yours and figure out how to get me the hell out of here!" he pleaded, louder this time, balking at swallowing his pride and having to ask his nemesis for help. He'd already been here for close to twenty minutes, and was growing more agitated with each passing second.

"And YOU! Don't you dare laugh," he added, fixing his most baleful stare on the shorter man, clad in gold, standing at the Vulcan's side. Not that he could see the captain's expression very well from this height.

Kirk screwed a neutral look onto his face, but the mirth continued to bubble up in the hazel eyes. "I'm not laughing, Bones. I feel for you, really I do." And how could he not? The doctor was suspended some twelve meters above the ground, pinned to the side of a cliff face by what could only be described as a huge ball of goo, his head—as luck would have it—the only part of him not thoroughly covered by the sticky material.

"Are you positive we can't use the transporter and beam him out?" Kirk asked, turning to his first officer.

"Affirmative, Captain. The substance does contain some traces of organic compounds," Spock remarked. Frowning slightly, he consulted the tricorder in his hand for the umpteenth time. "Essentially it is not an inert material but does contain the rudiments of living tissue, yet it is not life as we know or understand it."

"That's because, as I told you before, it's a huge spitball, courtesy of the humongous, indigenous herbivore I was studying before it decided to use me for target practice, you green-blooded hobgoblin," McCoy threw out angrily. "I'm stuck up here thanks to a gigantic, alien loogie."

Spock chose to ignore the irate medico's outburst, looking to his captain instead. "As we are unfamiliar with the physical properties inherent to the foreign matter, transporting it and Doctor McCoy simultaneously may confuse the transporter pattern, intermingling some of the alien substance's organic proteins and structures with his own. As they are both 'living matter,' the transporter may have difficulty distinguishing one from the other. The effects of even a minute transference of the native 'organism's' chemical make-up to the doctor's system are inconclusive at this juncture, but it is my recommendation that we find an alternate method of extracting him from his current predicament, in order to ensure that his DNA is not compromised in any way."

"Is he in any immediate danger?" Kirk pressed, once again casting his eyes skyward and struggling mightily to suppress a grin. Leave it to Bones…

"Negative. As it does not contain any known substances toxic to humans, and is not covering his face, therefore preventing normal respiration, I do not see any urgency in attempting to extricate him with undue haste," Spock supplied innocently. "It would be best to proceed with caution, therefore mitigating the chance of unforeseen injuries or complications."

McCoy rolled his eyes at that, positively fuming. The Vulcan was enjoying his predicament way too much for the doctor's taste. The CMO let out an exasperated sigh. "Just someone, please get me down. This stuff stinks to high heaven," he said, fighting the urge to retch.

"How do you suppose he wound up way up there, Spock? The animals in question are earthbound, and have exhibited no particular skills at scaling sheer walls," Kirk asked the science officer, as a flurry of activity was underway at the base of the cliff. A security team was rearranging portable airbags, which had been placed there ten minutes ago, in case the doctor and his gargantuan glue ball should suddenly pull free and plummet to the ground below. However, that didn't seem likely. Once they'd had them in position, Kirk had coaxed the doctor to try and wriggle loose, but he appeared to be stuck fast to the barren rock face.

"The creatures' spitting appears to be a defense mechanism against its natural predators, likely meant to temporarily distract or even hinder the pursuer's vision while the prey animal makes its escape. As we are significantly smaller and lighter, the force placed behind the expulsion of mucus could have been enough to sweep Doctor McCoy off his feet, carrying him a considerable distance from the point of contact. It is fortunate the cliff was in the trajectory of his flight; otherwise it would have been difficult to calculate how far the blast could have propelled the doctor without additional data," Spock explained drolly. Suddenly, another thought occurred to the Vulcan. "Doctor, have you sustained any secondary injuries?" the science officer inquired. Initially Spock had surmised that the cocoon of goo would have cushioned the impact with the rock wall. McCoy had not complained of any—and the man did tend to complain about _everything_, loudly and vociferously—but the possibility did exist nevertheless.

To McCoy, the situation was rapidly becoming unbearable. Just wait until he was finally free. All kinds of scenarios for revenge flitted briefly across the doctor's mind—revenge to be inflicted on his pointy-eared tormenter and the man's human compatriot. It went without saying that they'd _never_ let him live this down. He chose to ignore them at the moment, focusing instead on the task at hand. "Other than being covered in snot I'm just hunky dory, Spock." When no response from below was forthcoming he added, "Well?"

"Recommendations, Spock?" Kirk chimed in on cue.

"It might be possible to use a shuttlecraft to facilitate the rescue. Conceivably it could hover just below the doctor, a team of two to three men on its roof employed to extricate him from his organic anchor. In this way, were he to suddenly be released, he would land on top of the shuttle, as opposed to the airbags below. The shuttle could then be made to gently touch down and the doctor could be retrieved from the roof."

Kirk didn't seem too keen on that plan. "Any other options?" he asked, when a distraught voice sounded from above:

"That works for me," McCoy announced desperately, clearly at the end of his rope. "Just somebody, please do something soon, will ya?"

It took ten minutes for Sulu to pilot the small craft from the _Enterprise_ to the location in question, and another fifteen for Spock and two members of security to carefully cut the doctor free with plasma torches.

Once they were back on solid ground Kirk approached his CMO, mouth open to speak, but the surgeon cut him off. "Not a word outta you, hear?" he said testily, gesturing to the communicator affixed at Kirk's waist. The captain swallowed his remarks, handing over the device without comment. McCoy snatched it, while fixing the captain and first officer, who had come to stand dutifully at his commanding officer's shoulder, with a look that could melt neutronium.

He unceremoniously peeled off all his clothing, wiping what sticky material was left from his neck and hands with his black undershirt. It had been one helluva day already. The last thing he needed was to have his atoms scrambled with that of the alien substance. Stark naked, he activated the communicator. "McCoy to transporter room. One to beam up, and please have a towel handy when I arrive," he said into the small device, disappearing in a hail of sparkling light. He could have sworn he heard laughter in the background.


End file.
